








THE LIBRARY. ~~; 
Ob 
THE UNIVERSITY 
OF CALIFORNIA 


LOS ANGELES 


IN MEMORY OF 


MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER 











A DIVIDED HEART 





























A DIVIDED HEART 


OTHER STORIES 


FROM 


PAUL HEYSE 


TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH 
SBHith an Xntrovuction 


BY 


CONSTANCE STEWART COPELAND 


New York: 
BRENTANO’S 


CHICAGO PARIS WASHINGTON 


To 


Wy Mother 


cs Cc. 


2041965 





CONTENTS. 





: PAGE 
INTRODUCTION—PavL HeEyszE, : ‘ ; 11 


A DrvIDED HEART, . i : j : oe 
MINKA, , ‘ ; ; ; i 5 aa a | 
ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER, ‘ ; . 163 


ARAB J 

















INTRODUCTION— PAUL HEYSE 


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PAUL HEYSE. 





INTRODUCTION. 


Ir occasionally happens that a reader ex- 
pecting to find the customary account of an 
author’s early struggles for bread and knowl- 
edge, his bitter disappointments, his late 
and almost joyless success, is surprised by 
the record of a singularly fortunate life; 
of a life which advances easily and naturally 
from a peaceful and promising childhood 
to an equally peaceful, famous old age. 
Goethe’s was such a life; and reading it, 
one feels that sharp encounter with the 
hardest facts of existence would have les- 
sened his greatness, would have disturbed 
that perfect serenity of soul which made 
him philosopher as well as poet, and fos- 
tered his fidelity to high ideals of life and 
art. 

A countryman of Goethe’s, Paul Heyse, 
born in Berlin in 1830, two years before 


12 INTRODUCTION. 


the great poet’s death, was no less fortunate 
in the lot to which fate assigned him. 
Heyse’s power was unlike Goethe’s in kind 
and degree, but the opportunities for its de- 
velopment were equally favorable. His 
father was a philologist and lexicographer, 
whose home was comfortable and refined, 
and whose friends were cultured and liter- 
ary. He took charge of his son’s early 
education, and naturally laid great stress on 
language, inculeating the love for purity 
and exactness in its use, which is one of 
Heyse’s best qualities. Stimulated by the 
atmosphere of his home, and by these stud- 
ies in literary technique, Heyse began to 
try his skill in original work at a very early 
agé, and was only seventeen years old when 
his first book, “ Jungbrunnen: New Tales 
by a Travelling Scholar,” appeared. Al- 
though this production encouraged his 
friends in the belief that a great future lay 
before him, it made no impression whatever 
on the world at large, and the young author 
pursued his studies at the Berlin University 
without astounding anyone by phenomenal 
brillianey or success. 

Finishing at Berlin, he betook himself to 
Bonn, and spent a year studying Romance 


PAUL HEYSE. 13 


and philology with the famous Diez. So 
great was the interest in medieval lan- 
guages which Diez succeeded in awaken- 
-ing in the young man, that in 1850 Heyse 
travelled to Italy and employed a year in 
examining the precious manuscripts of the 
old Italian libraries. The results of these 
researches were afterwards published under 
the title “ Romanische Jnedita auf italien- 
ischen Bibliotheken gesammelt;’ and a 
book of Italian songs was also presented to 
the world. 

Upon his return to Germany, Heyse at 
once began serious literary work, and put 
the first rung in the traditional ladder to 
fame. Although his present place in litera- 
ture is due to his work as a novelist, his first 
creations were dramasin verse. He aspired 
to become a poet; not a singer of songs and 
lyrics, but a great dramatic poet, whose 
lines should chant, and whose thoughts 
should create a new era. To this end he 
experimented with the various styles of 
dramatic composition and tried the Shake- 
spearian, the Greek, and the late French, in 
rapid succession. His work was so beauti- 
ful in form and so faultless in finish that it 
attracted immediate attention. A master’s 


14 INTRODUCTION. 


hand was evident in every line, and albeit 
there was a subtle something lacking of the 
true poetic fire, a certain circle of fastidious 
and critical literati found the dramas high- 
ly satisfactory and hailed Heyse as a rising 
poet. In 1854, King Maximilian II. of 
Bavaria, whose court was a veritable literary 
academy, called him to Munich and assured 
to him an audience and an income. After 
a time the income was discontinued, but 
Heyse’s works were then amply remunera- 
tive, and he has lived in Munich to this 
day. No environment could be imagined 
more congenial to a man of Heyse’s tastes 
than that of the court at Munich; and 
once settled there, he began to fulfil the 
hopeful prophecies of his friends. In 1857, 
his drama, “ The Sabine Women,” took the 
prize offered by the king, and was produced 
on the royal stage. Notwithstanding that 
it satisfied the literary sense of the court, 
it failed to please the people. There 
was too much finish, too much studied 
elegance, and too little warmth of feeling, 
to appeal to their sympathies. Not until 
“‘Colberg,” “Elizabeth Charlotte,” and 


‘‘Hans Lange” had appeared, would the 
general public acknowledge Heyse as a 


PAUL HEYSE. 15 


great dramatist. Even then they found a 
flaw; for, although the characters were 
strong and interesting, and some of the 
situations were intensely dramatic, Heyse’s 
dramas, as a whole, were lacking in one es- 
sential quality,—action. They were more 
suitable for the study than the stage; more 
interesting to one appreciative reader who 
could enjoy the beauty of the workman- 
ship and feel the strength of the concep- 
tion, than to an indifferent audience ex- 
pecting to be amused or excited by actual 
happenings. 

In fact, they were dramatized novels, in- 
stead of true dramas, or dramatic poems. 
“ Not deep the poet sees, but wide,” and 
Heyse’s view was not wide. He lacked a 
poet’s objectivity, the power to create the 
type from the individual, the power to dis- 
cern the universal and essential beyond the 
particular and accidental. He studied life 
attentively and described it vividly and 
truthfully, but he saw no new message, 
created no new thought. 

Evidently, Heyse was neither a great 
dramatist nor a great poet; and although 
he was a man of unquestionable power, he 
reached forty years of age without having, 


16 — INTRODUCTION. 


made any permanent impression on his 
time. But the good fortune which had 
attended his youth did not desert him in 
middle age. He lived amid congenial sur- 
roundings; wrote constantly and with in- 
creasing power; and gradually attained a 
self-knowledge which enabled him to recog- 
nize the true field for his exertions. 

He began writing novels in verse, then 
short stories in prose, and at length, in 
1873, he wrote his great novel, “ Children 
of the World.” In this he expressed his 
philosophy of life. The man Heyse, with 
his intense admiration of physical beauty, 
his love of nature, his utter disregard of 
conventionality, his keen insight into the 
_ uttermost corners of human hearts, looks 
out of every page. The reader, whoever 
he may be, and however strongly he may 
disagree with much that he reads, is spell- 
bound from first to last. The scenes be- 
tween Edwin and Toinette in the first part 
of the book are as idyllic and unworldly as 
those between Marius and Cosette in “ Les 
Miserables.” Toinette herself, so exquisite- 
ly beautiful, so courageously true to her 
conception of her own nature, and so piti- — 
fully mistaken in that conception, fascinates 


PAUL HEYSE. 17% 


us as she does Edwin, and excites our deep- 
est compassion. Edwin, too, grave, and 
thoughtful, and warm-hearted as he is, 
seems no mere “character,” but a living 
man. They are all children of the world, 
living entirely in the present without hope 
or desire for a future life. The existing 
world supplies them with all they ask. As 
Edwin says: “O beloved, a world in which 
we may attain such triumph over fate, over 
our own and that of those we love; in 
which the tragical is glorified by a gleam 
of the beautiful; in which intense joy of 
life sweeps through us, bringing softening 
tears, even as we shudder in the presence 
of death—such a world is not desolate.” 
It is Heyse’s own creed, this of the all-suf- 
ficiency of the present life. In one of his 
lyries he has expressed it more explicitly— 
“ Kein Einst und Driiben, nur ein Jetzt und 
Hier !”, and later on in the same poem he 
Says : 
‘*Das eine wissen wir : 
Auch wir vergehen, und das ist Trotz genug.” 


Since this was written at the time of his 
son’s death, his disbelief in immortality 
must be at least sincere. 

_. Having now abandoned his aspirations 


18 INTRODUCTION. . 


towards poetic and dramatic fame, Heyse 
worked as his own nature dictated, and 
soon made for himself a distinctive place in 
German literature. In 1876, his other long 
novel, “In Paradise,” a story of artist life 
in Munich, appeared. Unlike “Children 
of the World,” “In Paradise” is full of 
humor and has little philosophy. 

But the short story is Heyse’s favorite 
form of expression, and it is in the short 
story that his power is best revealed. With 
the exception of a few essays, dramas, 
and one-act pieces, he has written nothing 
but short stories for the last fifteen years, 
and in that time he has produced so many 
that they would fill several shelves in a 
large library. 

Since Heyse believes that every story 
should embody some specific thought, some- 
thing to distinguish it absolutely from every 
other, it is easily comprehensible that many 
of his tales are morbid and unreal. But 
‘the best of them are veritable bits of life; 
life viewed not only from the outside as 
any keen observer may see it, but life as 
the philosopher knows it, the inner life 
which gives value and purpose to this 
“fleeting show.” He spares no detail of 


-PAUL HEYSE. 19 


common experience, which may give 
strength and vividness to his stories, but he 
chooses the themes themselves from the 
world of ideas. His stories are not prima- 
rily character studies, though the men and 
women produce the impression of actual 
life; nor are they stories with plots and 
thrilling events. They are histories of 
crises in human lives, of strange problems 
and situations, of subtle influences working 
unexpected issues. The majority are stories 
of love, psychological, like most modern 
love tales, but picturesque and human as 
well. Although the hero and heroine are 
separated, if separation must be, by some 
obstacle in their own natures rather than 
by any untoward circumstance of life, they 
are not dissected and analyzed till they lose 
all human semblance. They are as uncon- 
sciously true to themselves as living beings, 
and are not less difficult to comprehend. 
Heyse has searched human hearts to the 
depths ; he has read the motive behind the 
act; he has seen the thousand thoughts and 
feelings which make that motive complex; 
but he has not made his great knowledge 
an excuse for writing semi-scientific trea- 
tises in the guise of fiction. His characters 


20 INTRODUCTION. 


never lose personality; they give fascinat- 
ing glimpses of their deeper selves, but they 
make no full confessions; they are elusive 
and surprising, and therefore indescribably 
charming and real. All classes of German 
society have contributed to enlarge Heyse’s 
world of fiction, but it is of the educated 
middle class that he most often writes. 
While a certain sameness in type is notice- 
able in his characters, there is no marked 
sameness in the individuals. The men are 
usually cultured, thoughtful, and passionate ; 
the women are beautiful, noble-minded and 
vivacious ; but each man and each woman 
has traits which make his or her personali- 
ty distinct from all others. The women are 
strangely captivating. Toinette, in “ Chil- 
dren of the World,” Lucile and L.’s wife in 
* A Divided Heart,” Christel and the Gov- 
ernor’s lady in “ Rothenburg on the Tau- 
ber,”—they all claim our interest and sym- 
pathy as they do that of the people about 
them. In fact, Heyse always forces us to 
feel what he wishes to tell us. He is 
never guilty of writing about a charac- 
ter; the men and women are before us 
and we are left to draw our own conclu- 
sions. Yet we inevitably sympathize with 


PAUL HEYSE. 91 


him, and blame or praise as he would have 
us do. 

Heyse uses nature merely as a_back- 
ground for human beings. He never in- 
dulges in long rhapsodies over sunsets and 
beautiful views, or in lengthy descriptions 
of any scenes whatever; but he has Thomas 
Hardy’s power of making places absolutely 
real ina few vivid words. Nature must 
be very dear to him, and he must under- 
stand her very thoroughly, or he could 
never reproduce her charm so truly. 
“ Rothenburg on the Tauber” is a story of 
the spring-time; and reading it, we breathe 
the cool air of spring, see her pale tints, live 
through her sunny days and misty, moon- 
lit nights. In “Minka,” the gloom of a 
sombre autumn day depresses us as it 
does Eugene, and lends some of its own un- 
earthly sadness to the strange story. 

All of Heyse’s writings have atmosphere, 
that indefinable quality which no amount 
of mere description of places and people 
can give, but which comes of itself from 
the heart of the sympathetic writer. And 
Heyse is evidently deeply insympathy with 
every subject which he treats. Feeling in- 
tensely himself, he wishes his readers to 


22 INTRODUCTION. 


share his feeling, and he is so consummate 
a master of his art that he is sure of this 
effect. From the first word it is plain that 
he has something important to say, and the 
reader has no choice but to read on to the 
end. Nor is it possible by reading ten 
of Heyse’s stories to divine what the elev- 
enth may be. He is true to his principle 
of making each one utterly unlike all the 
others. This, perhaps, is one of Heyse’s 
greatest charms. Prolific as he is, he never 
wearies one with sameness; his twentieth 
volume is as interesting and surprising as 
his first. 

Whether or no Heyse’s works will live 
is a problem which must be left to its own 
solution. They are purely modern pro- 
ducts, tales of nineteenth-century people, 
actuated by nineteenth-century thoughts 
and feelings; and though many of them 
are artistically perfect, they are saturated 
with the author’s own personality, and have 
not that universal truth of application 
which usually characterizes the world’s 
classies. “ L’Arabbiata,” “On the Banks 
of the Tiber,” “The Maiden of Treppi,” 
“The Mother’s Picture,’ “A Divided 
Heart,” and “ Rothenburg on the Tauber,” 


PAUL HEYSE. 93 


are among the best of the short stories. 
His “ Tales of the Troubadours” are very 
beautiful, but are somewhat marred by a 
freedom of speech which approaches actual 
vulgarity. It is this unfortunate and un- 
necessary frankness which has brought 
against Heyse the accusation of immorality, 
although all his stories have an “ upward 
tendency,” and are true to the highest 
ideals. No one reading “A Divided 
Heart,” or “ Rothenburg on the Tauber,” 
could doubt the rectitude of the writer’s 
moral sense, or his love for the best in hu- 
man nature. 

Since Heyse is still living, the thousand 
and one interesting facts and anecdotes 
which come to the world’s knowledge only 
after a great man’s death are not yet told of 
him. His life has been even and unevent- 
ful; poor in those startling changes of for- 
tune which make the usual attractive 
biography, but rich in inner experience, in 
the vivid impressions, intense feelings, and 
great thoughts, which make actual life full 
of interest and meaning. 

A number of Heyse’s works have been 
translated into English, but. many more de- 
serve wider popularity than their own 


24 INTRODUCTION. 


language can give them. Their great writ- 
er, realistic as Balzac, analytic as Tolstoi, 
picturesque as his own countryman, Ebers, 
should become as famous here as he is in 
Germany, and add one more to the increas- 
ing list of great men whose writings are 
precious, not alone to their own countries, 
but to the world. C. 8. C. 


A DIVIDED HEART 





NP ARR 











A DIVIDED HEART. 


Ir was still early when I left, although 
the company was one of those which do not 
become lively until after midnight. Buta 
gloomy uneasiness which I had brought 
with me, would not yield to the good wine 
and tolerable humor which seasoned the 
bacchanal; so I seized a favorable moment 
and took French leave. As I came out of 
the house and inhaled the first breaths of 
the pure, night air, I heard some one follow- 
ing me and calling my name. 

It was L., the eldest and gravest of our 
circle. I had heard his voice scarcely twice 
the whole evening among the noisy chatter 
of the others. I esteemed him very highly, 
and was usually delighted to meet him. 
But just then I desired no man’s company. 

“Tt has driven you out also,” he said, as 
he caught up to me, and, stopping for 
breath, glanced at the starlit spring heavens. 


98 A DIVIDED HEART. 


“We were neither of us at home among 
those hardened bachelors. When I saw 
you slipping out, a melancholy envy, which 
you must pardon, came over me. Now, 
thought I, he is going home to his dear 
wife. She has been sleeping for some time ; 
he steps on tip-toe to her bedside; she at 
once awakens from her dream, and asks— 
‘Is it you already? Did you enjoy your- 
self? You must tell me about it to-mor- 
row.’ Or, she has been interesting herself . 
ina book, and opens the door herself when 
she hears your footstep. To be so received 
means to be at home somewhere in this 
world. Inmy lonesome cell there is no one 
waiting forme. But I enjoyed that good 
fortune for twelve whole years, and am far 
better for it than our young friends yonder, 
who have no perception of the best things 
life can offer, and who speak of women as 
the blind do of colors. Are you not of my 
opinion, that one only half knows them 
when one speaks merely from hearsay, and 
says, with the usual irony, a ‘ better half ’?” 

He put his arm in mine, and we walked 
slowly along the deserted streets. 

“You know, my dear friend,” said I, 
“that I am a marriage fanatic, with good 


A DIVIDED HEART. 29 


reason. If I neglected to preach its gos- 
pel to the heathen this evening, it was only 
from a general disinclination to speak where 
I am not altogether at ease. I feared, too, 
that my usual eloquence on the subject 
might leave me in the lurch. But, truly, it 
would not be the first time that I have ar- 
gued alone sgsuies a whole gang of obsti- 
nate bachelors.” 

“T admire your dowiichs? he replied. 
“For my part, I am always hindered from 
contradicting the scoffers by an absurd 
heart-beating ; it seems to me a desecration 
to gossip of the school in which one learns 
to fathom the deepest and most beautiful 
secrets of human life.” 

“You are quite right,” said I, “and I 
have often reproached myself for being be- 
guiled into discussing in prose, after the 
manner of a scientific problem, what one 
may properly confess only in verse. And 
yet certain silly speeches always excite me 
to protest again. When I hear it said that 
marriage is the death of love ; that the ob- 
ligation to fidelity quenches passion ; and 
that, since no man can master his heart, 
even the best should hesitate before form- 
ing a life-tie, my vexation at the foolish 


80 A DIVIDED HEART. 


babble runs away with my reason, and I be- 
gin to speak of things which one regards as 
mere exaggeration unless he has himself ex- 
perienced them.” 

To this he did not reply, and we walked 
silently side by side. I observed that he 
was lost in recollections which I did not 
wish to disturb. I knew nothing of his 
marriage, except that he had lost his wife 
many years before, and mourned her as if 
it were but yesterday. An old lady who 
had known her told me that she was an ir- 
resistible person, with eyes which no one 
who had once looked into them could ever 
forget. Her daughter, lately married, I 
had met once at a social affair ; she impress- 
ed me as an amiable, but very quiet, young 
woman. 

L. had been a military man in his younger 
days; but being severely wounded in the 
Schleswig-Holstein war, he had withdrawn 
to a country estate and passed his best years 
there with his wife and child. After he 
became a widower, a spirit of unrest seemed 
to drive him over the earth, and it was only 
from time to time that he made a brief ap- 
pearance among his old friends. He was a 
stately, handsome man even yet. His hair, 


A DIVIDED HEART. oL 


although streaked with gray, stood thick 
and curly above his high, bronzed forehead, 
and in his eyes there gleamed a quiet fire 
which told of imperishable youth. 

At the next crossing he stopped. 

“My way properly leads down there,” 
said he, “ but, if you do not object, I will 
accompany you for a distance. My sleep 
has not been worth much for some time, 
and ‘In that sleep what dreams may come’ 
seldom amount to anything. Besides, I am 
going away in a few days. Who knows 
when we can chat with each other again.” 

We set forth on our, or rather on my 
way, but for a long while the talk would 
not take the right channel. 

The warm, night wind was as soothing as 
the murmur of a cradle-song; the stars 
blinked like eyes which can scarcely keep 
themselves open. A fine mist moved slow- 
ly across the heavens, weaving a veil over 
the shining firmament. 

“Bear in mind,” said I, “we shall be 
wakened from our first sleep by a spring 
thunder-storm.” 

He neither answered nor glanced at the 
heavens, but continued to look fixedly at 
the ground. Suddenly he began, “Do 


82 A DIVIDED HEART. 


you know what I have always lamented ? 
That Spinoza was never married. How 
that would have improved his ethics! He 
had no conception of certain problems ; 
and I have always wondered how he would 
have regarded them if they had come under 
his observation.” 

“Which do you mean ?” I asked. 

“You know he was the first to deny the 
power of reason over our passions, and to 
advance the profound thesis that a passion 
can be displaced only by one stronger. But 
what happens if two equally strong passions 
together rule the same soul ?” 

“ Are there then two precisely similar 
passions ?” I asked ; “I myself have never 
experienced anything of the kind, and am 
inclined to be sceptical until I see it proved 
in another man.” 

“There are certainly no test-scales for 
feeling,” he replied, “ but whoever has had 
such an unfortunate experience will have 
no doubt of its reality. But one can scarce- 
ly make it comprehensible to a third person, 
because the psychological constellation un- 
der which alone this situation arises seldom 
comes into position, and can almost never 
be observed as quietly as other phenomena, 


A DIVIDED HEART. 33 


Even you as a novelist would hardly be 
able to make use of such an occurrence. 
You must have heard often enough that you 
novelists search for psychological problems 
and dispense with probability. Wonderful 
people! They wish to learn something, 
and yet, if one tells them of what is not to 
‘ be found on every highway, they refuse to 
believe it. If a botanist discovers and de- 
scribes a new plant accidentally bearing 
blossoms on the root instead of the stalk, no 
one doubts his veracity. But a new growth 
of human flora, heretofore unnoticed by the 
thoughtless observer, is immediately desig- 
nated as a daring invention.” 

“You forget,” I broke in, “that people 
wish to enjoy fiction with the heart. alone, 
not with the intellect, and that the heart 
refuses everything which is not closely akin 
to it. Therefore I feel very lenient toward 
the average reader. In real life he is inter- 
ested only in certain things which he un- 
derstands, prizes, and considers desirable ; 
such as money and land, social reputation, 
family happiness, and more of the same 
sort. Consequently, he likes in books only 
such stories as deal with rich and poor, 
rogues and honest men, and, for a sort of 


34 A DIVIDED HEARTY. , 


y 


relish, with a little of the so-called love 
necessary to complete a happy marriage. 
Whatsoever there is beyond that, is evil. 
Yet in every human breast there lives a 
still presentiment that there is something 
glorious about the unusual, about a feeling, 
for instance, that fills the heart to overflow- 
ing, even to the breaking of all convention- 
al bonds. But my poor wise Leopardi was 
right; the world laughs at things which it 
otherwise must admire, and, like the fox in 
the fable, blames what it really envies. A 
great love, for example, with its passionate 
joys and sorrows, is universally envied, and 
therefore unsparingly condemned. They 
consider it dangerous, and I have found 
this view sanctioned everywhere in men’s 
judgments of life and fiction. ‘Do not 
destroy my home! cries the peaceful citi- 
zen to the passion which is breaking into 
his house like an armed man. And if he 
feels himself adequately protected by his 
armor of conventionality, more invulner- 
able than iron or steel, he fears for children 
and parents, and the tender heart of his 
wife. Although the danger may not have 
been great after all. Only what we recog- 
nize as true has power over our souls; 


A DIVIDED HEART. 35 


and surely you yourself have seldom en- 
countered in this cold world of ours any 
strong passion or heart-instinct out of the 
catechism, and yet truly felt.” 

“That is true,” he said, “and therefore 
I have never yet discovered, either in 
psychology or romance, a trace of that pe- 
culiar situation which I mentioned. Once 
I imagined that, in the writings of one 
whom I-consider a true artist, I had found 
something similar when, in looking over 
Alfred Musset’s short stories, I came across 
the title ‘ Zes Deux Maitresses.’ But no, 
the hero loved one and flirted with the 
other. That happens thousands of times. 
But what I mean—” 

He broke off, seeming to regret that he 
had gone so far. I allowed only a slight 
word to betray my intense interest. I did 
not wish to elicit any confidence which he 
would not freely give me. I knew also 
that there is a midnight hour for long-buried 
histories, when they burst the bars of the 
closed breast and rise up to walk about once 
more in the pale light of a starry heaven. 
One must then guard his tongue well, fora 
careless word may frighten the timid ghosts 
back to their graves. 


86 A DIVIDED HEART. 


So I remained silent and waited. We 
were approaching a little enclosure, a grove 
of ash-trees, and on the seats under the 
wind-tossed branches several homeless men 
lay sleeping peacefully. In the darkest 
corner of the shaded place stood an empty 
bench. 

“Tf it suits you,” said L., “let us sit here 
amoment. I would like best of all to imi- 
tate yonder vagabonds and spend the night 
here sub divo. The south wind possesses 
me.” 

Then, after we had been sitting dumbly 
side by side for some time, “ Of what were 
we speaking ?” he began ; “was it not of 
people’s inability to imagine situations 
which they themselves have never been 
through? How can one expect it of them, 
since even the individual himself cannot 
always comprehend what he has too un- 
deniably felt ? 

** And when I now look back on that 
time and observe everything calmly from a 
distance, does not my own heart oftentimes 
seem to mea riddle? To you, indeed, that 
which is unintelligible to most people will 
seem natural enough ; namely, that the love 
I bore my wife was strengthened instead of 


A DIVIDED HEART. 37 


weakened by the years of unclouded happi- 
ness. One might say that every deep and 
earnest affection is artistic. As the artist 
and the poet bear and cherish the burning 
thought within them, ever striving to ap- 
proximate it to their highest ideal, so love, 
if not mistaken in its object, is a ceaseless 
advance. But I see this comparison halts 
a little. Let it be. Only you must know 
that I was one of those fortunate beings 
who consider the possession of a beloved 
wife as a daily gift from the gracious gods ; 
and that I was still feeling a sort of lover’s 
devotion when the young likeness of the 
dear woman had already outgrown child- 
hood. 

“TI do not know that you would have 
understood this better, if you had known 
the woman. Many passed her by without 
suspecting what a rare spirit looked out 
upon the world from those quiet, all-under- 
standing eyes. I myself, in our first hour 
of meeting, felt indissolubly bound to her. 
But I shall not attempt to describe her. At 
this moment, as is always the case with 
those whom I hold dearest, I see her picture 
only in uncertain outlines, although I could 
draw any indifferent face even to the 


38 A DIVIDED HEART. 


wrinkles. It was so even when she was 
living; I carried with me the feeling of her 
personality as a whole, and when she ap- 
peared it was like a new revelation. 

“Many did not consider her a beauty, 
and she had not the slightest desire to please 
in that way. But to others she seemed su- 
premely charming, and far beyond com- 
‘parison with any merely pretty woman. I 
often pondered over this mysterious charm 
of hers. I came to the conclusion that, 
while the good qualities of the average loy- 
able person affect us at different times, with 
her the whole character revealed itself 
every moment. Goodness, cleverness, ear- 
nestness and cheerfulness, grace and firm 
strength,—her entire treasure was always at 
hand. But I see I am still praising and de- 
scribing. I will only say that the first meet- 
ing decided my fate. 

“T immediately realized that it was not 
one of those sudden, short-lived passions 
which I had often experienced during my 
frivolous officer-life. Until now I had never, 
even in the warmest love-affair, been able 
to think of a union for life without feeling 
a quiet aversion to the loss of my freedom. 
In the first hour I knew that this love con- 


A DIVIDED HEART. 89 


cerned my soul’s welfare; that I could 
never again be my own master, even though 
I should be obliged to remain away from 
her forever. I could not long endure the 
uncertainty as to her feeling for me. I 
was somewhat spoiled by previous successes. 
Yet it scarcely distressed or surprised me, 
when, though she acknowledged that my 
presence was pleasant to her and that she 
would be glad to see me often, she said she 
did not return my passionate feeling, and 
thought too highly of a union for life and 
death to enter into it half-heartedly, as into 
something of little moment. 

“‘ She became still dearer to me through 
this refusal, although from any one else 
such treatment would have sorely wounded 
my vanity. Before her all mean and petty 
feelings disappeared, and a man’s best 
nature was aroused, as alone worthy of 
her. 

“It never occurred to me to withdraw 
myself, grumbling and pining, in order to 
make myself missed. After the first pain 
was over, I seemed to myself rashly pre- 
sumptuous in having proposed atall. I be- 
lieved that I could not better atone for this 
ridiculous hastiness than by remaining un- 


40 A DIVIDED HEART. 


assumingly near her. Her parents kept 
open house; and, being always welcome, I 
exerted myself to be cheerful, and to sup- 
press every feeling of jealousy toward my 
companions in misery. But my nights 
were wretched, and I often brooded over 
the darkest resolves. 

“Now imagine my feeling when one 
morning I received a note from her; I 
might call upon her during the day. She 
had something important to say to me. 

“T found her alone. She met me in the 
greatest agitation, stretched both hands to 
me, and cried, ‘You live! God be thank- 
ed!’ Then she told me that toward morn- 
ing she had had a frightful dream, in which 
she had seen me lying dead before her witha 
deep wound in my forehead. An unspeak- 
able grief had suddenly seized her, almost 
as though a hot, buried spring had burst 
forth from her inmost soul and gushed from 
her eyes in an inexhaustible stream of 
tears. In that instant she knew that she 
loved me, and must die if I did not revive. 
When she awoke from the dream and re- 
flected upon it, her happiness at finding it 
untrue was nearly fatal to her; her heart 
beat as violently as if it would leap from 


A DIVIDED HEART. 41 


her, and she was scarcely able to write the 
note to me. 

“From that morning until her death, 
that warm spring of love was never ex- 
hausted. Whenever I remember—no, I 
dare not. I would seem to you a strange 
visionary, or, at best, weary you with con- 
fessions that could give you nothing new. 
I am no poet; and even Dante, with all his 
display of color and sound, could not save 
Paradise from monotony. 

“Every day we experienced some new 
happiness, especially after our child was 
born. She was a lovable child; and yet it 
was a long time before I could learn to love 
her for her own sake. During the first 
years, I loved her because of her mother, and 
she pleased me only so far as she resembled 
her. It was, so to speak, only an additional 
charm of this dear woman’s that she had 
given life to sucha child. I tell this to 
you, that you may know what a boundless 
love filled me, and how it never grew cool 
or more rational with years. 

“ Indeed, she even succeeded in displac- 
ing another passion, to which I had former- 
ly given all my spare time, but which now 
scarcely ever manifested itself. Even in 


42, A DIVIDED HEART. 


the cadet school, I had been an enthusiastic 
violinist, and believed that I could not live 
without music. And when I realized that 
my wife was a stranger to the true nature 
of music, it pained me for a moment. But 
I would have renounced as unnecessary or 
troublesome, anything in which she had no 
part. Indeed, I easily convinced myself 
that this lack was but one perfection the 
more. Her true, simple nature, always at 
one with itself, shrank from the mysterious 
depths, the spiritual twilight, into which 
music lures us. It troubled her that she 
could not find the key to this fascinating 
riddle; but she seemed to fear that she 
might be drawn into a moral perplexity 
which would admit of no redemption. It 
was not indifference toward the musical 
world, but rather a lack of sensitiveness, 
which barred her way to the heart of it. 
She thoroughly enjoyed a folk-song or 
dance melody. A Beethoven symphony 
pained her—indeed, could drive her to de- 
spair. 

“ All her artistic sense was in her eyes. 
She enjoyed every visible thing with the 
most exquisite feeling, and would study the 
lines of a face, a landscape, or a building, 


4 DIVIDED HEART, 43 


for hours together. Her hand was well- 
trained, but she placed little value on her 
sketches and aquarelles. Her technical skill 
did not equal her power of artistic percep- 
tion. Besides, within the limits of our 
country estate, amid entirely commonplace 
surroundings and unattractive people, she 
had little opportunity to perfect herself. 

“ Thus, for different reasons, both our 
talents remained dormant. But, occasion- 
ally, the desire to take my violin from its 
case and play through my old favorites once 
again, would seize me like a physical neces- 
sity. This I would do in perfect secrecy in 
some distant part of the woods. When the 
longing was satisfied, and I returned to the 
house like some penitent sinner, we would 
both laugh if she chanced to meet me with 
the violin under my arm. She often im- 
plored me to ignore her weakness ; perhaps 
I might cure her of it. But her untroubled 
cheerfulness was more to me than all the 
sonatas in the world. 

“For nearly eight years we lived thus, 
entirely for ourselves, and reminded only by 
little excursions and visits to the city, that 
any world existed beyond our pine woods. 
Then our child sickenéd with the measles, 


44 A DIVIDED HEART. 


and retained from them a bad throat-trou- 
ble, which our physician advised us to 
check at once by a sojourn in milder air. 
Although it was harvest-time, we soon de- 
cided to leave home and take our child to 
Lake Geneva, for which place my wife had 
always preserved a tender feeling since her 
school-days at a French pension there. 

“In Vernex, where, as yet, the hotels 
had not rendered the beautiful shore un- 
safe, we found an excellent house, entirely 
after our own hearts. It was arranged for 
only a dozen guests, and was situated in the 
midst of a beautifully green garden, with a 
most glorious view of the lake and the 
mountains on the south shore. We settled 
ourselves in two spacious rooms on the sec- 
ond floor. My wife and child slept in the 
small room ; the large one adjoining it serv- 
ed as the sitting-room, and at night my bed 
was made on the divan. The correspond- 
ing rooms on the ground floor beneath us 
were occupied during the first day by an 
English couple, who disturbed us by con- 
tinual playing on the piano; but when they 
departed on the following day, they left 
such stillness behind them that we might 
have considered ourselves the only persons 


A DIVIDED HEART. 45 


in the paradise, had not the usual meals, in 
an elegant dining-room, reminded us that 
we still had half-gods near us. 

“On the first evening I was surprised by 
a tender stratagem of my wife’s. As I un- 
packed the great trunk belonging to her 
and the child, which she herself had filled 
at home, I struck something hard, which 
proved to be my violin-case. 

“T embraced her heartily as I saw her 
smile with pleasure because she had ac- 
complished this so cleverly and secretly. 

“¢ As I brought my color-box,’ she said, 
‘there was no need for your instrument to 
remain at home. I know a hundred places 
by the lake and on the road to Montreux, 
where I can carry on my daubing by the 
hour, while you are conjuring your uncanny 
spirits up here.’ 

“ Yet it happened otherwise than I had 
first thought in my excitement over her 
loving forethought. The case remained 
unopened, and for a full week not one mu- 
sical thought occurred to me. I would sit 
by the hour on the balcony with an unopen- 
ed book in my hand, wholly absorbed in the 
nobly beautiful picture before me. Or I 
would accompany my wife and child on 


46 A DIVIDED HEART. 


~ 


their walks; and when my wife had settled 
down to sketch the magnificent chestnut- 
trees, or the white houses surrounded with 
fig-trees and vineyards, glimmering on the 
slopes in the ravines between Montreux and 
Veytaux, I would stretch myself in the 
shade near by; chat with the child, who 
was visibly improving ; and feel so com- 
pletely satisfied with God and man, that 
that sultan who vainly searched the world 
for the happiest man would finally have 
found him in me. 

“ One morning I allowed them to go out 
alone, for I had several necessary letters to 
write. It was a quiet, beautiful day; not a 
breath of air ruffled the mirror-like lake ; I 
had moved my table before the open bal- 
cony door, and was congratulating myself 
on the deep stillness of the house, when, in 
the room beneath me, I suddenly heard that 
fateful piano, which I had so often cursed, 
sound again, and so loudly that I knew the 
lower baleony door must also be open. In 
my vexation I at first closed mine ; but after 
listening a moment or two, I reopened the 
door and stepped outside, in order not to 
lose the slightest tone. The ten fingers 
playing Bach’s Prelude on the little piano 


A DIVIDED HEART. AT 


below me belonged to no Englishwoman. 
Late last evening new guests had moved in 
—so the chambermaid had announced—a 
French man and woman, brother and sister. 
Which of the two was then playing I natu- 
rally did not know. But from the touch, 
although it was firm and strong when nec- 
essary, I decided upon the sister. I have 
seldom heard such beautiful, distinct, and, as 
it were, mature playing; yet it had no trace 
of so-called classic objectivity, but rather a 
very personal charm, as if the player’s deepest 
nature were speaking to me. I would have 
wagered my head that the musician was a 
brunette, with those gray eyes which Span- 
iards call ‘green.’ I know it is folly ; but 
it is not the only one of which you will 
find me guilty, and it had not less power 
over me becausea sound human intelligence 
might resist it. 

* You know that Gounod composed a 
violin accompaniment for this Prelude. 
The purists and Bach-pedants reject it. 
But it has such an irresistible melody that 
every violinist learns it by heart. It was 
not long before I had taken my instrument 
from its case, tuned it sufficiently, and 
placed the bow in position, And then be- 


48 A DIVIDED HEART. 


gan a most wonderful duet on two floors, 
played with as much calmness and precision 
as if it had been well practised. There was 
not the slightest hesitation ; my violin was 
never in better condition, and the little piano 
rang as full and soft asif it had been changed 
over night into a powerful concert grand. 

“ After we finished there came a pause, 
and I wondered with some trepidation if 
another approach than that of sounds would 
be proper. I stepped out on the balcony, 
hoping that the player would appear on the 
terrace. But a new piece which she began 
drew me forthwith back into the room. 
This time it was a Chopin Impromptu 
which I knew perfectly. Since I had been 
unable to play much, I had read an unlim- 
ited quantity of music, and my memory 
was very well trained. 

“ Again seizing my bow, I attempted a 
modest accompaniment to the somewhat 
quaint, but passionately musical, confession. 
Then came something from Schumann, and 
so on ad infinitum. I believe we played 
three full hours at one stretch. When my 
wife finally returned—it was the second 
breakfast hour—she found me much over- 
heated, and bathed in perspiration, 


A DIVIDED HEART. 49 


“She even listened to the last bars of a 
Beethoven sonata, to which I was playing 
the treble. ‘What duet have you arranged 
for yourself?’ she asked, smiling, and when 
I told her that I knew the pianist as little 
as she did, she laughed outright. ‘I did not 
bring the violin in vain, after all, and if I 
sketch chestnut-trees by the hour, I shall 
know that you are busy and happy.’ 

“J attempted to reply somewhat joking- 
ly, but made a miserable failure. The music 
had moved me exceedingly ; and, although 
I never believed in presentiments, I was 
unable to shake off a premonition of some- 
thing unusual and uncanny. I longed to 
remain away from dinner, but felt ashamed 
of such a boyish feeling. But my shyness 
about making the player’s acquaintance was 
unnecessary. She did not appear at table ; 
so we met only her brother, a slender, seri- 
ous young Frenchman, whose hair and com- 
plexion at once proclaimed his southern 
origin. In fact, we learned later that his 
home was at Arles. His father had been an 
Alsacian from an old German family, a 
merchant, who, conducting a branch busi- 
ness in that city of beautiful women, had 
finally lost his heart to the most charming 


50 A DIVIDED HEART. 


one. He had afterward settled there and 
founded a great banking-house, that the son, 
who was inclined toward a diplomatic 
career, might find the way easily open to 
him. Both parents had died recently, and 
the son was still in mourning for them ; but 
he seemed either very reserved for his age, 
or oppressed by some secret trouble, so that, 
beyond a few courteous words of greeting, 
we heard little from him. His sister, after 
whom my wife immediately inquired, was 
still tired from the journey, and also from 
the music, he added, with a side glance at 
me. Her physician had forbidden her to 
play, but she could not refrain fromit. In 
the register, which was brought to him 
after dinner, he wrote a simple, common- 
place name, but beneath it that of his sis- 
ter—Countess So-and-so. 

“So she was married, and perhaps we 
should meet her husband also. I do 
not know why this thought affected me 
unpleasantly, since I had never yet seen the 
lady herself. I awaited the evening in 
strange suspense. On entering the dining- 
room we saw the brother and sister seated 
directly opposite us. I was not in the least 
surprised. The young woman appeared pre- 


A DIVIDED HEART. 51 


cisely as I had imagined; beautiful dark 
hair, slightly curly, and bound in a simple 
knot at the back of her head; a face far 
from regular, but charming for its pale 
ivory-color and beautiful teeth ; and, truly, 
gray eyes, the iris inclosed with a dark ring 
and shot through with golden lights, exactly 
as I had fancied from her playing. 

“ She talked little, addressing herself only 
to my wife when she did speak. It was 
nothing new to me to see that the latter 
could at once attract even this shy and re- 
served heart. 

“ After dinner, when we went out into the 
garden, over which the stars were twinkling, 
it was not long before I observed the two 
sitting together absorbed in earnest conver- 
sation. One could hardly have imagined 
anything lovelier than this pair, so unlike, 
yet so truly equal in charm and nobility of 
appearance and manner. They were nearly 
the same size, although my wife was stately 
and well-developed, while the stranger was 
girlishly slight; but her arms and neck, 
which I saw later in lighter clothing, were 
perfectly rounded, and resembled those of 
some Arabian women whose pictures I had 
seen in afriend’ssketch-book. The brother 


52 A DIVIDED HEART. 


had withdrawn ; I walked to and fro on the 
lower part of the terrace, smoking my cigar, 
gazing absent-mindedly over the shimmer- 
ing lake, and now and then hearing a de- 
tached word from the conversation of the 
women. The child was sleeping quietly up- 
stairs, for she was put to bed every evening 
before we went to dinner. 

“¢ She is extremely charming,’ my wife 
afterwards said to me, ‘but even more un- 
happy than she is beautiful and lovable. 
She has been separated for two years from 
her husband, who is a mawvais sujet, a 
gambler and spendthrift, who has already 
wasted her whole dowry. When she real- 
ized that she had married a worthless man, 
she insisted upon returning to her parents. 
So you may imagine that when her mother 
and father both died, it was much harder 
for her to bear than for many other loving 
daughters, who find comfort in their hus- 
bands. She is now living with her broth- 
er, but, although he adores her, she cannot 
have him with her forever. Sometime she 
will be entirely alone and dependent on her- 
self, and, since she is a Catholic and cannot 
release herself from her hateful tie, she 
looks forward to a hopeless future. When 


A DIVIDED HEART. 53 


I showed active sympathy because of her 
mourning, she told me all this without the 
least sentimentality, and with the calmness 
of a strong soul. But when she mentioned 
that the Count occasionally came to see her 
to extort money, although he no longer has 
the slightest claim on her property, her 
voice trembled, the mere thought of the 
villain is so repulsive to her. Her health 
has suffered under all these emotions. I 
promised to care for and pet her like a loy- 
ing sister, and you should have heard how 
prettily she laughed. The poor young 
woman! J ammuch pleased that your vio- 
lin travelled with us. She said your play- 
ing seemed so sympathetic.’ 

“She never wearied of talking about her 
new friend. I teased her because, contrary 
to her usual habit, she had allowed herself 
to be so quickly conquered. 

“Only beware of yourself !’ she replied, 
laughing. “I certainly do not understand 
the language of tones, but I know that with 
them one can confess far deeper secrets 
than we revealed to-day with words.’ 

“¢ As long as there is a solid floor be- 
tween us, there is no danger,’ I interrupted, 
jokingly. But I knew very well the first 


54 A DIVIDED HEART. 


evening that it would not be safe to jest 
with those dangerous gray eyes. 

“ For a long while Icould notsleep. The 
theme from the Prelude sounded constantly 
in my ears. At midnight I arose, and, go- 
ing softly into the neighboring room, gazed 
at the beloved faces of my wife and child 
by the light of the little night-lamp. The 
charm worked, and I passed a perfectly 
quiet, dreamless night. But my first wak- 
ing thought was again—danger ! 

“You will understand why the matter 
seemed so serious to me, when I tell yon, 
that I am one of those with whom all spir- 
itual crises complete themselves on the in- 
stant, without delay or hesitation, with the 
calm fatality of a natural law. Although 
it is often well to understand one’s self at 
once without being obliged to question mind 
or heart—like the commander of some fort- 
ress, who, recognizing the superiority of the 
besieger, needs no council of war—yet, in 
either case, if time can be won, everything 
may be saved, and the relief may come 
which would have been too late, if there 
had been a premature surrender. 

“Thus, perhaps, it might have been bet- 
ter for me, and I might have acted more 


A DIVIDED HEART, 55 


wisely that morning, if I had not regarded 
the matter as an unavoidable decree of fate. 
The symptoms were indeed precisely the 
same as when I fell so suddenly and violent- 
ly in love with my wife. But the situation 
was different. With a wife and child, and 
eight added years—acknowledge that you 
find it inexcusable to yield thus passively 
to a passion, instead of opposing it with all 
my strength, and calling the good spirits of 
house and home to my aid. 

“ Strange to say, notwithstanding this new 
affection, I was not for a moment untrue to 
what I had previously loved; neither did I 
think coldly of my wife, nor wish her ab- 
sent that I might have only that other face 
before my eyes. It was as if one of my 
heart’s chambers had been empty and was 
now occupied ; but between it and the next 
the door was standing open, and the two 
occupants were on the best of terms, even 
crossing the threshold now and then to visit 
each other. 

“That may seem to you merely an idle 
fancy. It is only a miserable attempt to 
explain the remarkable condition in which 
I found myself—a condition not quite so 
clear then as to-day, since at first it seemed 


56 A DIVIDED HEART. 


treason towards my dear wife, and I bitterly 
reproached myself for it. Soon, however, 
I reassured myself that I took nothing from 
her by this division of my heart; that, on 
the contrary, my strong, pure love for her 
received new nourishment through this 
quickening of my inner life. 

“ Allthis I tellto you alone. Thousands 

would consider it self-deception or morbid 
extravagance. Knowledge of the human 
heart is still in its swaddling-clothes, not- 
withstanding the age of the world, and 
most people never go beyond the A BC, 
even though they consider themselves ex- 
perienced. 
. “As I said, the situation was new to me, 
and I needed time to understand and par- 
don myself. I remained at home again 
that morning, for, on the day before, I had 
not written a single letter. 

“JT shall not disturb the duet,’ said my 
wife, smiling, as she went out with the 
child. But I did not touch the violin, al- 
though the little piano beneath seemed to 
demand it. The pen remained unmoisten- 
ed. I lay motionless in my hammock, list- 
ening. It sounded even more magical than 
before. Now I had the player’s face defi- 


A DIVIDED HEART. 57 


nitely before me: the beautiful, unvarying 
pallor of the cheeks ; the sensitive mouth, 
with its full, red lips, always slightly apart; 
the small, white hands. Often it seemed 
to me as if my wife, stepping behind the 
player, looked at the music over her shoul- 
der. Then, calmly comparing them, I 
could not decide which was the more charm- 
ing ; they agreed as well in life as in my 
heart. 

“When my wife returned—she brought 
an extremely clever study, and the child 
had her hands full of harvest flowers—she 
was much surprised to hear that I had not 
touched the violin. She urged me to ar- 
range a regular practice hour with the 
Countess ; I objected that the little piano 
stood in the room where she lived and 
slept, and that I would not accompany her 
if she played on the miserable instrument 
in the salon. At table there was some talk 
about it, but since she herself failed to en- 
courage it, and especially since the brother, 
who believed music injurious to her health, 
showed no interest, the matter was not men- 
tioned again. Altogether, it seemed as if 
the beautiful ‘danger’ and I were never to 
become better acquainted. If I began any 


58 A DIVIDED HEART. 


conversation whatsoever with her, it soon 
came to a pause; and she on her part never 
addressed me without some obvious reason. 
On our walks she took my wife’s arm, and 
went ahead ; I followed with her brother ; 
the child, rnnning from one couple to the 
other, soon attached herself trustfully to 
the quiet, strange lady who was so friend- 
ly to her. Often we all chatted together, 
and on these occasions my wife was always 
conspicuous for her charming gayety. She 
persuaded the Countess to try the broken 
German which she had learned from an old 
Alsacian nurse. This gave occasion for 
much lively joking and teasing, and even 
enlivened the serious brother. He was 
working hard at a statistical paper, through 
which he hoped to obtain a place in the 
ministry. For the rest, he was a most 
pleasant companion, paid court to my wife 
in all honor, gave fruits and sweetmeats to 
the child, and, in a weak, but pleasing voice, 
sang Provengal folk-songs, the only music 
for which he had taste or talent. 

“Thus we were very sorry to hear one 
day that his chief had unexpectedly re- 
called him. He was obliged to depart at 
once, but would not allow his sister to ac- 


A DIVIDED HEART. 59 


company him. He begged us to persuade 
her to remain a few weeks longer in the 
glorious air and scenery of the lake, for she 
had visibly improved during the past eight 
days, and had slept better and suffered less 
from headache than usual. 

“My wife embraced her warmly, and de- 
clared she would not allow her to leave her 
care as yet. She had wagered with her that 
it would not be impossible to entice a little 
color into her velvety cheeks, and, for at 
least four weeks longer, she would use all 
her arts to win the bet. The little one, 
clinging about her neck, insisted that she 
would forget all her beautiful French if 
‘Aunt Lucile’ went away. But when I 
heard a brief ‘ HA bien! Je reste, from 
her, it was asif a hand which had been 
clutching my throat suddenly freed me 
again. I promised her brother to supply 
his place conscientiously, and, although I 
was fond of him, saw him depart with a 
certain sense of relief, as if he had stood 
between his sister and me, and had now 
left the field clear. 

“Yet his departure changed nothing 
whatever. To be sure, his room being 
empty, she had her bed taken in there, 


60 A DIVIDED HEART. 


and arranged the other, where the instru- 
ment stood, as a sitting-room. We visited 
her there now and then, and she often 
came up to our room; but duets were not 
mentioned. 

* Indeed, she herself seemed to have lost 
all desire for music. Occasionally I heard 
her open the piano and begin this or that 
well-known piece. In the midst of it she 
would break off, often with a bad discord, 
as if in some unusual, ill-tempered mood. 
It seemed as though she began only to de- 
mand my violin as accompaniment, and 
proving unsuccessful in this, found the 
music suddenly distasteful. Once or twice 
I yielded to the temptation. But the play- 
ing excited me to such a feverish pitch that 
I, too, broke off in the midst of a passage, 
excusing myself afterward with an awk- 
ward pretence of an interruption, which 
she did not seem to believe. 

“Tn truth, it was just as my wife had 
said, I knew how much could be confessed 
in music, and shuddered before the sin of 
betraying to this stranger that I had lost 
half of my heart to her. 

“T was better able to guard my words 
and looks, We were scarcely ever alone 


A DIVIDED HEART. 61 


together longer than a few seconds. She 
stayed in her room or on the terrace outside 
most of the time, and in our walks in the 
cool of the evening, she never left my wife’s 
side; so that I, leading my child by the 
hand, often remained a long distance behind 
the two women, and pondered my strange 
fate without addressing a single word to 
her during the entire walk. 

“The evenings grew longer. The gen-. 
eral sitting-room was not pleasant to us; so, 
after dinner, we assembled alternately in 
her room and our own; she and my wife 
with their handiwork, chatting or reading, 
while I either smoked my cigar on the bal- 
cony, or read aloud from some book. She 
liked to hear me read German poetry. 

_ “My wife sketched her in many differ- 
ent positions. A profile sketch, with the 
head sorrowfully drooping, was especially 
good, and I could never look at it enough. 
I still remember when, at one of these sit- 
tings, I for the first time touched her hair; 
until then I had not once felt so much as 
the tips of her fingers in my hands. It 
went through my nerves like an electric 
shock. There was a peculiar fragrance 
about her from some costly French per- 


62 A DIVIDED HEART. 


fume that she used. I knew even long 
afterwards if she had lingered in a place, 
either been sitting in my hammock, or 
standing by the bookcase in the salon. 
“One evening, as we were preparing to 
visit her for a little chat before bedtime, 
our door suddenly opened; she rushed in, 
the very picture of terror, bolted the door 
after her, and sinking on the nearest 
chair, broke into such a storm of tears that 
she could not speak. We were extremely 
anxious about her, but my wife at length 
succeeded in calming her so far that she 
could tell what had occurred, with tolerable 
composure. 
~ “Somebody had come into her room 
without knocking; and, as she had looked 
around, she had seen her husband standing 
in the middle of the chamber. He had 
greeted her politely, asked after her health, 
and, when she made no reply, seated him- 
self on the divan, as if perfectly at home. 
In spite of his subdued voice and quiet 
manner, she had noticed an air of sup- 
pressed excitement about him ; but, owing 
to her own agitation, could not determine 
whether wine or some other cause rendered 
his look unsteady and his voice grating and 


A DIVIDED HEART. 63 


harsh. Then he had commenced in a list- 
less way; he would tell her the motive 
of his visit; he had been robbed in a 
gambling house in Geneva, and was sans le 
sou. A good friend had paid his steamer 
fare here. He now wished nothing more 
than the means of escaping from his guignon, 
and hospitality for that night. He would 
be satisfied with the sofa. 

“She had given him whatever she could 
spare at the moment, a not inconsiderable 
sum, and commanded him to leave on the 
instant.—Did she expect any one? He 
would remember her situation, and not em- 
barrass her. With this he had tried to take 
her hand, and had looked at her with a 
smile which almost congealed her blood. 
And ashe appeared firmly determined not to 
yield, she had gone out under pretence of 
making arrangements for the night. She 
implored us to assist her, and protect her 
from the rascal. 

“*T exchanged a glance with my wife, 
who had taken the weeping woman in her 
arms like some sick child ; and leaving them 
thus, I hurried downstairs. 

“T found the Count indulging in a quiet 
doze on the soft couch. Since he did not 


64 A DIVIDED HEART. 


hear me enter, I had suflicient leisure 
to observe him. His face showed that 
irresistible drowsiness so apt to seize gam- 
blers after long excitement; the lips were 
pale; eyelids and nostrils, reddened. Be- 
yond this the perfect type of a bel homme, 
faultlessly attired and thoroughly dissi- 
pated. 

“Finally comprehending where he was, 
and that a stranger was facing him, he arose 
composedly, and -asked what I wished. I 
had to impart to him only his wife’s desire, 
that he should leave her room and the 
house without delay or further sensation. 

* And if he would not ? 

“ Then the Countess would use her house- 
right. He regarded me with a certain 
cold-blooded insolence, which, even in that 
painful moment, struck me as amusing. 

“He asked if I were the hotel porter; 
meanwhile adjusting his eye-glass to his 
right eye. 

“T replied that the Countess’s reason for 
asking this service of me was not his con- 
cern—I lived in number so-and-so, and 
would be at his service next day for any 
satisfaction he required. For the present, 
I would simply execute my commission, 


A DIVIDED HEART, 65 


and hoped, for his own sake, that he would 
avoid any unnecessary disturbance. 

“He reflected for a while; now looking 
at me doubtfully with a cold, impudent 
smile, now appearing resolved to remain. 
At length he took his hat, murmured sever- 
al unintelligible words, brought out a cigar 
and lighted it from the candle on the table, 
bowed very civilly, and with a ‘To-mor- 
row, then,’ left the room. 

“T immediately closed the balcony door, 
and carefully fastened the shutters. After 
which I returned upstairs and announced 
the quick result of my mission, of course 
without mentioning the parting words. 
The two women were sitting together on 
the sofa, and the Countess was motionless 
and silent. She was trembling nervously 
from the effect of her fright ; but this ceased 
when my wife, who dabbled in homeop- 
athy, forced her to take a few of her 
‘wonder-drops.’ Taking up a book which 
we had been reading the day before, I at- 
tempted to go on with it. Not one of us 
understood a word that I read. 

“ At ten oclock the Countess bade my 
wife good-night, and allowed me to escort 
her downstairs. She was tormented by the 


66 A DIVIDED HEART. 


fear that he might yet find some way of 
slipping in. 

“¢ You see, the field is clear,’ I said, with 
a smile, after I had inspected both rooms. 
‘You can rest in peace !’ 

“¢TIn peace!’ she said, shuddering 
throughout her slender body—‘in peace! 
And at what price!’ And then, coming 
closer to me, ‘ You ordered him out. Oh, 
I am sure of it, otherwise he would not have 
gone so quickly! And now—for my miser- 
able sake ’— 

“T sought to comfort her as well as I 
could, promising to do nothing without her 
knowledge ; but her distress only increased. 
‘Think of your wife, of your daughter! 
O God! if I should be the cause—’ 

“T seized her hand; she sank on my 
breast in uncontrollable emotion ; and as if in 
a dream, I held her thus embraced, and felt 
her slender figure trembling in my arms, 
yet did not even touch her hair with my 
lips; in that moment all passionate im- 
pulses yielded to the deep pity which I felt 
for her. 

“ And so, drawing myself away, I bade 
her a cheerful ‘ Good-night !’ and went to 
my room. 


A DIVIDED HEART. 67 


“T was obliged to quiet my wife also, for 
she feared that the affair would have conse- 
quences. I myself did not believe it. I knew 
that in professional gamblers all feelings, 
even those of honor, become completely 
deadened. And I judged correctly. 

“T remained at home all the following 
day. He neither appeared himself, nor 
sent a messenger. The Countess took ref- 
uge with us, for she was in constant fear of 
a surprise. The two women sat together 
on the baleony with their embroidery, ap- 
parently engaged in careless conversation, 
but in reality watching me. Not a word 
was said of that which occupied our 
thoughts. When the day had passed with- 
out bloodshed, my wife accompanied her 
friend to her room, and remained with her 
that night. On the next day, we heard 
that the Count was again in Geneva, 
whence he soon afterward disappeared to 
some other German gambling house. 

“You will comprehend that this iter- 
mezzo bound us still more closely to each 
other. We were together nearly all day 
long, and I occasionally wondered that my 
wife, who had formerly known all my 
thoughts even before they were clear to 


68 A DIVIDED HEART. 


myself, allowed, indeed, unmistakably fa- 
vored, this harmful playing with fire. She 
did not hesitate to leave us téte-d-téte, al- 
though, as a fact, there was no enjoyment 
in such a talk. I usually took refuge at 
such times in a stubborn silence, which, to 
any third person, would have seemed veri- 
table rudeness. I often denied myself the 
pleasure of seeing her by pretending indo- 
lence, absence of mind, or pressing business ; 
all of which excuses were accepted with- 
out comment. At first mild-tempered and 
somewhat melancholy, she gradually be- 
came irritable and capricious. My wife, 
noticing this, often reproved her gently, 
and, with sisterly patience and kindliness, 
tried to calm her wild moods of rebellion 
against fate. 

“ My wife and I no longer spoke of her. 
Yet often, when I looked up from my 
reading unexpectedly, I encountered a 
strange, questioning look in my wife’s 
eyes; a look such as a physician casts 
upon a mortally sick man by whose bedside 
he watches. 

“T was certainly ill, yet not so des- 
perately but that I still sought for a cure, 
though with ever-lessening hope of finding 


4 . 


A DIVIDED HEART. 69 


one. Music, to which I resorted in the 
hope of relief, poured oil upon the flames. 
After I had played an hour or two alone, 
the piano below would begin its reply, so 
it was not a conversation or duet, but a dis- 
course in long monologues. Surrendering 
to this dangerous comfort on two morn- 
ings, I ended in a species of intoxication. 
I then tried the effect of separation, and 
arranged a climbing party which kept me 
away over night. Then I felt the truth of 
what I told you at first; the new passion 
was equal to the old, but not stronger. I 
missed them both with the same longing— 
indeed, could no longer separate them in 
my thoughts. When I saw them again, I 
felt the same heart-throbs twice. I was not 
then so philosophical that I could accept 
this as something rational and ordinary ; it 
was strange and unprecedented, yet I felt 
that it was not immoral. It harmed no 
one, and far from estranging me from my- 
self, rather enriched my inner life. No, it 
was not immoral, though I realized, at the 
time, that it was a great misfortune, and 
would become a sin if it undermined my 
dear wife’s peace and happiness. I tried 
to find some way of escape, though I knew 


70 A DIVIDED HEART. 


it would be at the price of killing or for- 
ever stifling half of my heart. 

“ We lived thus for about fourteen days 
after her brother’s departure, each day 
bringing something new, either a trip on 
the boat or a walk to a neighboring place, 
when, one afternoon, we arranged to meet 
at the landing-place below the garden, and 
make a boat-trip toChillon. I was first. I 
had hired a boat in Vernex from a boat- 
man who allowed me to take his son, a 
powerful fellow, fourteen years of age, as 
rower. The Countess came soon after, 
dressed in a black barége-cloth garment 
through whose fine meshes her beautiful 
arms and shoulders were plainly visible; 
she wore a flower in her hair, and carried 
her straw hat on her arm. I had never 
seen her so beautiful, or so pale. 

“<You are ill, I said; ‘you are suffer- 
ing from the sultriness.’ 

“* What does it matter?’ she replied ; ‘I 
am suffering from something worse—from 
living. Where is your wife ?’ 

“My wife came as I was helping her 
friend into the boat, but came without the 
child. She was not well, my wife said. 
She complained of headache, and wished 


A DIVIDED HEART. 71 


her mother to remain at home with her; 
then, too, the weather was uncertain. We 
immediately arose, preparing to get out of 
the boat. But this my wife would not 
allow. There was not a shadow of danger 
or cause for worry ; I knew how our dar- 
ling was troubled ; she would sit with her 
and read something aloud ; and she wished 
us a pleasant day. After giving the skiff 
a little push with her foot, she went back 
to the house ; and although neither of us, 
as we glided out over the waves, felt pleased 
or at ease in this forced téte-d-téte, neither 
one had the ready courage to confess it at 
once and return to land. 

“T took the second pair of oars and 
pulled as vigorously as if for a wager, 
though in reality it was in order to be ex- 
cused from conversation. She was sitting 
nearly opposite me, but I could see only 
her little feet and the edge of her dress, 
for I kept my eyes obstinately cast down. 
Suddenly she began to speak of my wife, 
making a long, passionate declaration of 
love for her. She spoke at first of her 
goodness and warm-heartedness, of her fine 
mind, her strong and ready will; every 
word was true, a perfect portrait of her 


72 A DIVIDED HEART. 


deepest nature. Then she described her 
appearance, feature by feature, with the 
idealizing penetration of a lover, and after 
I had listened for a long while, she asked 
me how I had learned to know her. I 
then told her of our first meeting ; and as 
I recalled everything, I felt deep gratitude 
and happiness that nothing had changed ; 
that my good star had given me even more 
than it had then promised ; that even the 
woman opposite me could alter nothing. 
We were speaking French, and the words 
almost escaped me, ‘ /2en nest chamgé ; 
a ny a quwun amour de plus.” 

“JT restrained myself, however, and, in- 
stead, rose from my seat, extended my hand 
to her, and said, ‘I thank you for having 
learned to know and love her so.’ 

“Her hand lay in mine like that of a 
corpse. We did not venture far out into 
the lake, for it was already beginning to 
roughen. You know how quickly it breaks 
from the deepest calm to the wildest up- 
roar; and a dark cloud, toward which our 
boatman from time to time cast a watchful 
glance, was even then appearing above the 
Savoyard mountains. Therefore, as we 
stepped out upon the rocks near the Castle 


A DIVIDED HEART. 73 


of Chillon, and saw the first breakers with 
their narrow silvery crests surging against 
the shore, I proposed to return on foot. 
She regarded me with a look which strange- 
ly transformed her face, but which had still 
greater power over me than her usual gen- 
tle and kindly expression. 

“¢Do you fear the storm ?’ 

“Not for myself, I said, ‘I can swim 
like a fish. But it is my duty to bring you 
home in safety.’ 

“<*T release you from that obligation. 
Whoever is to suffer, does not die. Come! 
Turn the boat around. ’ 

“<Very well, said 1, ‘vogue la galére !’ 

“ And then we pushed out through the 
angry, swelling waves, while the air about 
us grew ever darker, and the houses at 
Montreux gleamed above us in dazzling 
sunshine. Muffled thunder came from the 
peaks beyond, but as yet no drops fell. As 
we were then rowing, we would reach home 
in half an hour. No one spoke a word. 
She had drawn her veil half over her face. 
I could see only her pale mouth. Her lips 
were slightly parted, and I saw them quiver 
now and then, more from scorn than pain. 
Suddenly she arose and hurried over the 


74 A DIVIDED HEART. 


seats to the stern, where the boatman sat at 
the rudder. 

“ «What are you going to do?’ I cried. 

“¢Nothing wrong. I merely wish to 
relieve the boatman for a while. I under- 
stand how, perfectly well. ’ 

“ Before I could interfere, she had taken 
the rudder from the boy’s hand and seated 
herself in his place. I was somewhat dis- 
turbed at this, as her voice sounded un- 
natural. But, in order to lose no time, I 
let her remain there, and redoubled my 
own exertions. In a short time, I saw that 
she had given the boat a direction which 
drove it into the very midst of the raging 
lake. Yet her delicate arms had so much 
strength that, in spite of my efforts, I could 
not turn the boat back again. Suddenly I 
realized that she was doing this with a clear 
purpose. 

“ «You are steering falsely,’ I cried to 
her. ‘I beg you, for God’s sake, give up 
the rudder. We are in the very centre of 
the storm.’ 

“ *Do you mean it?’ she answered soft- 
ly. ‘I thought you had no fear. Only 
look at the beautiful waves. They do noth- 
ing unkind ; they receive one in their arms 


A DIVIDED HEART. 75 


more gently than mankind. Look, look! 
Could anything be merrier !” 

“ A large wave broke over us; we were 
instantly wet to the skin. The first sharp 
flash of lightning darted down from the 
black mountain-wall. 

“T coukl not leave the oars; I bade the 
boy take the rudder again; he shrugged 
his shoulders, and pointed to the Countess. 
Undisturbed by everything about her, she 
was staring wildly into the distance. We 
were already so far from shore that the 
houses were scarcely distinguishable through 
the gray storm-twilight. Some action was 
imperative. Standing up, I motioned the 
boatman to take my oars, and strode, waver- 
ing and staggering, to the other end of the 
skiff. Her eyes met mine through the veil 
with a stubborn, threatening look. 

“¢ Be reasonable!’ I said in German; 
‘T shall not suffer this any longer. Give 
me the rudder, will you? Well then—’ 
Seizing her hands with a quick movement, 
I pressed them so hard that she released 
the rudder. I held her thus for a moment, 
although I must have hurt her. She gave 
no sign of pain, but gazed steadily into my 
eyes with a look of hate or the deepest rage. 


76 A DIVIDED HEART. 


Then her face changed; her mouth trem. 
bled; her eyes closed with an expression 
of unutterable misery and despair; as I 
freed her hands, she threw herself at my 
feet, and I heard a stifled sob and the 
words, ‘Pardonnez-moi! Je swis une 
folle !? 

“T seized the rudder, and, in my dis- 
tress and bewilderment, could only whisper 
to her that she must control herself and 
rise again. In afew moments she was once 
more seated on the bench, but this time 
with averted face and bowed head. I did 
not speak to her again, for I was obliged to 
exert all my strength to bring the boat back 
into the right course, and to steer for the 
land. But the brief scene affected me so 
powerfully, that one thought was continual- 
ly uppermost in my mind—what rapture it 
would have been, amid this wild upheaval 
of the elements, to clasp her close, and with 
her go to the bottom ! 

“The storm helped us, and we landed 
much sooner than I had expected. Springing 
out first, I offered to assist her, but she re- 
fused my aid and jumped out on the beach 
without help. She was trembling through 
and through in her wet clothes. I asked 


A DIVIDED HEART. 77 


if she were ill, but she shook herhead. Yet 
she took my arm as I accompanied her 
back to the house. 

“ My wife was standing on the balcony, 
and welcomed us cheerily. She had been 
greatly worried about us. She would come 
down and help her friend undress. 

* <Oh, no, no!’ cried the Countess, with- 
drawing her arm from mine, ‘I need noth- 
ing, thank you—good-night !’ 

“Thereupon she hurried away from me, 
without so much as a backward glance or a 
wave of the hand. I followed slowly; I 
felt very much exhausted, and went up- 
stairs still staggering from the motion of 
the boat. The storm was entirely over; a 
crimson sunset glow filled our room. My 
wife had already laid out dry clothing for 
me ; she received me in her usual quietly af- 
fectionate manner and then left me alone, 
for I had to dress myself from head to feet. 
It did not occur to me that she said very 
little, and asked for no detailed account of 
our adventure in the boat. My own feel- 
ings were absorbed by my recent experi- 
ence, and I changed my clothes mechanical- 
ly, as if in a dream. 

“Then I remembered the child. As I 


78 A DIVIDED HEART. 


entered the other room, I saw the little one 
sleeping in an arm-chair near the open win- 
dow. My wife whispered to me that she 
had given her some medicine, which had 
eaused her to fall asleep during the read- 
ing. I might go to dinner alone; she her- 
self had no appetite, and would content her- 
self with a cup of tea. 

“So I went down, although I also would 
have preferred to remain away from the 
table. I-had no wish to sit alone opposite 
Lucile. But this ordeal was spared me. 
She too remained in her chamber. I did 
not speak a word during the lengthy dinner. 
I usually smoked my after-dinner cigar in 
the garden. By deing so I did not separate 
myself from the women, but could chat 
back and forth with them; for though of 
late both had been together, the Countess 
usually sat at her window or on the terrace, 
and my wife on the balcony above. To- 
night, balcony and terrace were empty, and 
I soon withdrew to the most remote part of 
the garden. 

“T would lie if I should say that I had 
seriously considered my condition. I en- 
dured it—that was all. I had a definite 
feeling that things could not remain so; 


A DIVIDED HEART. 79 


that something must happen, be decided, 
or expressed, if I were not to be stifled by 
the suppression. But what the- something 
would be I could not imagine. My cigar 
had long gone out ; yet I remained on the 
parapet of the little pavilion and gazed out 
over the dusky surface of the lake, which 
appeared like some vast, metallic mirror 
framed in black mountains. Not till the 
first stars began to glimmer forth could I 
decide to return to the house. For the first 
time, the thought of meeting my wife was 
painful tome. Therefore it was an actual 
relief when, knocking gently at her door, I 
heard instead of ‘Come in!’ the whispered 
request not to enter then ; she had just put 
the little one to bed and did not wish to 
disturb her. She bade me good-night. So 
for the present I was alone with my trou- 
bled soul. 

“T lighted the lamp and attempted to 
read. The letters danced before my eyes. 
I took up my wife’s portfolio and looked at 
her drawings leaf by leaf; but when I 
came to the portrait sketch I closed the 
folio hastily, as if I had caught myself enter- 
ing upon forbidden paths. Then, for a 
long while, I sat perfectly passive before 


80 A DIVIDED HEART. 


my writing-table with my head resting on 
my hand, and sank ever deeper into an 
abyss of hopeless wishes, sorrows, and self- 
reproaches. 

“ By and by the door was opened softly, 
and my wife entered. She had on her 
night-cap, but was otherwise completely 
dressed. Evidently in the act of going to bed 
she had suddenly resolved on something else, 

“ Her face was unusually pale ; her beauti- 
ful eyes glistened strangely as if a slight 
shower of tears had passed over them. A 
certain air of timidity made her seem ten 
years younger, indeed, almost girlish. I 
had never felt so clearly what a treasure she 
was to me. 

**¢T shall not trouble you long,’ she said, 
‘but I must talk with you. Perhaps we 
shall both sleep better.’ 

“She seated herself with her back toward 
the open baleony-door. 

* «Shall I close the window ¢’ I asked. 

“<«Why? It is nothing secret. I could 
say it as well before a third person. It has 
been clear and comprehensible to you your- 
self for a long time. ’ 

“<¢ What?’ I asked, looking past her out 
into the night. 


A DIVIDED HEART. 81 


“<«That you love her. One can see it 
easily enough. And she too is no longer an 
inexperienced child. I would only like 
to know if you have told her, and how she 
received it.’ 

“T sat before her as if in a spiritual 
swoon, or as when one dreams of being al- 
most naked in a gorgeous company, and 
would perish for shame. 

“ ¢ How can you imagine—’ I stammer- 
ed. 

“ ¢Tt has not been easy for me,’ she con- 
tinued with a sad smile; ‘ but it will not be 
otherwise, because I wish itso. I saw it 
coming, and had time enough to become 
used to it, if it is ever possible to accustom 
one’s self to certain experiences. It is al- 
ways best not to close the eyes and seal the 
lips when people love each other. And 
you love me yet, I know, in spite of every- 
thing. ’ 

“<¢Thank you for those words!’ I ex- 
claimed, and rushed to take herin my arms. 
But she repelled me with gentle firmness. 

“ ¢* No, stay there, she said; ‘we will 
talk it over calmly. Iam no heroine, and 
this discussion is very hard for me. But 
tell me.’ 


82 A DIVIDED HEART. 


“T assured her, on my honor, that no 
word had passed my lips which could have 
betrayed the state of my feelings. Then I 
told her, even to the smallest detail, all that 
had happened on the lake that day, and also 
everything which I had felt. 

“<¢T suspected something of the sort,’ 
she replied quietly. ‘She avoided my eye, 
and you—you had no thought for our child. 
It isa passion; that we cannot hide from 
ourselves. You will not think me so child- 
ish as to surrender to a miserable jealousy, 
overwhelm you with reproaches, or make 
any scene which might show our friend 
how much harm she has done me. Can I 
blame you for loving her? She is so loy- 
able, that I myself, even yet, love her as an 
only sister. It does not surprise me. I 
knew it at the first sight of her charming 
face. If,in spite of that, I did nothing to 
keep her away from us, indeed, rather 
brought her into closer intimacy, it was be- 
eause I have always considered that old 
proverb—‘ Out of sight, out of mind— 
perfectly false. No, the absent are pre- 
ferred to all present people; our hearts 
idealize them ; love and longing grow with 
separation. I hoped that the first witch- 


A DIVIDED HEART. 83 


ery would be paled and effaced by fre- 
quent meeting. It has certainly happened 
otherwise, and the future is very dark to 
me.’ 

“ «Tet us go away!’ I said. ‘We could 
pack this evening and go to Lausanne to- 
morrow at dawn. I promise you, this sick- 
ness will leave my blood with change of 
air.’ 

“ She shook her head gently. 

“¢ Out of sight, 7 mind,’ she said. ‘ Yes, 
even if it were only a whim; you a light- 
minded, fickle-hearted man, and she a pret- 
ty theatre princess. But consider how 
everything about her touches you—her un- 
happiness, her loneliness, the nobility of her 
whole character, and her music. At the 
first sound of a violin you would live it all 
over again. No, my dear friend, we dare 
not flee, and I dare not appear cowardly in 
your eyes. Iam not so. I know that we 
are too firmly united to be parted by any 
power whatever. But I am not so high- 
minded that I can share you with another. 
I would rather die!’ 

“We sat facing each other in sorrowful 
silence. I felt that any word, any assur- 
ance of my good faith, would be trivial, a 


84 A DIVIDED HEART. 


desecration of the situation which she re- 
garded so purely and nobly. At length 
she arose. 

“¢] feel much better now,’ she said, 
smiling with an indescribably brave and 
beautiful expression. ‘Do not think any 
more about it. Good counsel comes in the 
night. “But promise that you will keep 
your confidence in me, and that you will 
never hide anything for fear of hurting 
me. The concealment itself would pain 
me. Are we not human, and therefore 
poor creatures unable to master our own 
hearts? No one is responsible for his in- 
clinations, but only for his deeds. And 
you, I know, will never do anything which 
could really divide us. Good-night !’ 

“She gave me her hand. I wanted to 
take the noble woman in my arms; but, re- 
treating, she bade me farewell with her 
eyes, and disappeared into her room. 

“ You can imagine that I fell asleep late. 
But this time it was not because of the 
fever of an unreasoning, godless passion, 
like that which had kept me dreamily half- 
awake for so many nights. The clear, quiet 
- words which I had just heard dropped 
upon my burning wound like a powerful 


A DIVIDED HEART. 85 


balsam. I felt myself already in a sort of 
convalescence, because of whose great charm 
I could not sleep. I could scarcely con- 
ceive how any other woman than my own 
wife could ever have gained power over 
me. More than once I longed to steal into 
her chamber, kneel by her bedside, and, if 
she awoke, declare my love to her. But I 
was forced to remember that she had 
pushed me away, and that my warmest 
protestations might perhaps find no belief. 
Thinking thus, I finally fell asleep. 

_“T awoke before sunrise. You know 
that, on that shore, it is day some time be- 
fore the sun appears above the Dent-du- 
Midi. Downstairs, all was already awake 
and astir. In the neighboring room noth- 
ing was moving. She, too, did not close 
her eyes till late, and needs the morning 
sleep, thought I. 

“ But I myself felt impelled to go out. I 
dressed noiselessly and stepped softly down 
stairs. I longed for a bath in the lake ; the 
blood was burning in my veins. As I 
came down and approached her door, I saw 
that it stood ajar ; and within, seated upon 
a chair in the middle of the room, and sur- 
rounded by locked trunks, I saw Lucile 


86 A DIVIDED HEART. 


herself, her bill and its amount in gold 
lying on the table before her. 

“Tnvoluntarily I stood still. At the 
same instant she glanced up and recognized 
me. I crossed the threshold in intense ex- 
citement. 

“¢ You intend to go away, Countess?’ I 
exclaimed ; ‘ why this sudden decision?’ 

“<My brother telegraphed for me last 
evening,’ she said hurriedly, without look- 
ing at me. ‘He is worried about the af- 
fair with the Count, which I did not con- 
ceal from him. He wishes me to come at 
once to Paris—he is perfectly right—it is 
best in every respect—’ 

“She stopped and bent over a small 
satchel in her lap. I went to the piano and 
fingered some music lying on it, merely to 
make a noise. If it remained so still, I 
feared that she would hear my heart beat. 
I could not speak a word. 

“« Remember me to your wife,’ I heard 
her say. ‘ It is so early—she must be asleep 
—I will not disturb her to say good-by. I 
shall write to her from Paris—-meanwhile, 
tell her—? 

“She faltered again, Her voice sounded 
so timid and humble, she was so perfect a 


A DIVIDED HEART. 87 


picture of contrition and helplessness as she 
sat there, afraid to look up, that I could not 
bear to let her suffer alone. 

“T turned quickly toward her. 

«Shall we seek to deceive each other at 
this hour?’ I said. ‘It is generous of you, 
but it shames me too much. I know why 
you wish to leave us so suddenly; your 
brother has nothing to do with it; no, there 
shall be no falsehood between us. I alone 
drive you away. You know that I love 
you passionately. Listen to me patiently ; 
Ishall say nothing unworthy of either of 
us. Wethree know it, therefore we can no 
longer remain together. No one has been 
to blame. You esteem my wife too highly, 
and me also—I know that you are my 
friend—to wish to bring any trouble into 
our lives. Nothing is changed between my 
wife and me, we live for each other as al- 
ways before ; but you are right, one should 
not presume on such good fortune, and in 
time, even with the purest intentions—’ 

“T do not know what more I said. I was 
looking down at her, and I can see her 
head before me even yet, the narrow white 
part in the curly, blue-black hair, and at the 
neck, the simple, heavy knot with a silver 


88 A DIVIDED HEART. 


pin. I saw that her bosom heaved painful- 
ly, and that the small hands on the satchel 
trembled slightly. But I could not see her 
face. 

“Suddenly she looked up, and her eyes 
as they met mine were full of gratitude, 
but streaming with tears. 

“¢Tucile!’ I cried, and falling on my 
knees before her, I drew her head down 
with my hands. ‘ Farewell!’ Istammered. 
She did not speak. I pressed my lips to 
both her eyes, then tore myself away and 
fied from the room. I hastened out of the 
house, down the nearest street, and up the 
steep road toward Montreux. About half 
way there was a bench standing against a 
vineyard wall. Halting there, I remained 
seated for awhile with my eyes closed, in 
that stupefied state between pain and pleas- 
ure, which usually comes to one who has 
done his duty at the cost of a deep heart’s 
need, or has renounced forbidden fruit. 

.“ The morning remained sunless ; a strong 
south wind wrapped the Savoyard moun- 
tains in mist, and at length a slight rain 
began to fall. Looking around, I saw the 
steamer which had landed at Vernex al- 
ready well on its way toward Vevey. I 


A DIVIDED HEART. &9 


vainly strained my eyes to discover, among 
the figures wrapped in rain-cloaks on the 
forward deck, her who was leaving me for- 
ever. Then I slowly retraced my steps to 
the house, intending to tell my wife of 
what had happened. But, first, I could not 
resist entering the small salon below, for 
the door was still open. 

“The traces of a hasty departure were 
still visible—torn bills, flowers withered 
and scattered, and on the piano-stool a sin- 
gle sheet of music torn through the centre. 
I picked it up. It was the first music I had 
heard from the little piano, that prelude 
through which we had learned to know each - 
other—Galeotto fu il libro! twas a sor- 
rowful hour indeed when she vented her 
defiance and misery on the innocent music. 
I carefully pocketed it. 

“Then I went upstairs. Still no sound 
from my wife’s sleeping-room. Finally I 
knocked softly at the door, and when no 
one answered, entered the room. Neither 
mother nor child were to be seen ; the win- 
dows were open ; hats and wraps had dis- 
appeared. 

“T do not know why this seemed so 
strange to me. Nothing was more natural 


90 A DIVIDED HEART. 


than that they should start on their morning 
walk when they failed to find me. [I eall- 
ed the chambermaid ; she had seen my wife 
and child going in the direction of Chillon ; 
she had received no message for me. As it 
had begun to rain, I imagined they would 
soon return, and decided to wait for them. 
But I could not endure this half an hour. 

“T strode down the street which, follow- 
ing the shore, between houses and vine- 
yards, leads to Chillon. At every bend in 
the road I expected to see them. Each 
time I was disappointed. Finally reaching 
the isle of Chillon, I asked the guard on 
the bridge if a lady and child had gone into 
the castle. Excepting a few Englishmen, 
there had been no visitors during the whole 
morning. I shall not attempt to describe 
my feelings at this information. Immedi- 
ately turning about, I returned in half the 
usual time. Drenched, exhausted, and fe- 
verishly excited, I once more reached the 
house. 

“ Dinner-time was past, and they had not 
arrived. 

“For the time being I was incapable of 
going out and renewing my search for the 
fugitives. 1 searched her chamber and my 


A DIVIDED HEART. 91 


own, her desk, each of her trunks and boxes, 
in the hope—or rather in the fear—of find- 
ing a note which might give some clue to 
this mysterious disappearance. I found 
nothing. That completely disheartened 
me. I stretched myself on a sofa, and for 
a full hour was tormented by the most in- 
credibly horrible fancies, and suffered the 
bitterest distress in my poor soul, a purga- 
tory wherein I richly expiated my sins. 

‘* At length I arose. 

“It was about two o’clock, and the rain 
was lighter. Although I felt lame and ex- 
hausted, I nevertheless resolved to go out 
again and search in the direction of Mon- 
treux, where she had often sketched. Per- 
haps the rain had surprised her there, and 
for the child’s sake she had taken shelter 
under some hospitable roof until the rain 
should cease. 

“Just as I was ready to go, the door 
opened, and a man in a coachman’s blouse 
entered. He asked my name, and gave me 
a note. She wrote from Vevey, whence 
the man had just come in his wagon. She 
had suddenly decided that morning to carry 
out her plan, and visit the principal of the 
pension where she had lived as a girl. She 


92 A DIVIDED HEART. 


begged me to excuse her for not informing 
me before. She would tell me about it 
when she saw me. She meant to remain 
there for the night; the room which she 
had formerly occupied was empty, and she 
wished to sleep once more in the bed where 
she had dreamed her girlish dreams, and to 
show the child all the places which were 
dear to her in her youth. She would re- 
turn next day. 

“While I was reading, the messenger re- 
lated in his patois a rambling story about a 
Friulein from the pension whom he was 
obliged to take to Vevey, and about the 
strange lady who had given him the note 
just as he was harnessing ; and now he must 
go. I listened with little attention, gave 
the man his fee, and was once more alone. 

“T could not believe it had happened so 
accidentally. I recognized a little stratagem 
of my wife’s, a ruse to make me feel what 
it meant when she failed me. ‘Out of 
sight, in mind’ was indeed her maxim. 
She proved it only too cruelly. 

“T did not wish to prolong my penance 
unnecessarily. It was two hours before 
another steamer left. The railroad was then 
only a subject for conversation. Little 


A DIVIDED HEART. 93 


time would be gained by taking a carriage, 
and I knew that the slow movement would 
madden me. 

“To be brief, I arrived in Vevey about 
seven o’clock, and was at once driven to the 
pension. They sent me into the garden. 
It had become a perfectly clear and beautiful 
evening, and although the sun had long 
since set, the light was still so strong that 
one could read out-of-doors. I saw the 
fugitives in the distance. . My dear child 
ran to meet me with a ery of joy, and threw 
herself as impetuously about my neck as if 
she suspected what suffering the separation 
had caused me. My wife approached more 
slowly, for she was walking with the old 
directress ; but her face wore a most loving 
expression, and she blushed slightly, as if 
ashamed of being caught in a trick. She 
presented me to her old friend, an excellent 
little spinster with snow-white hair, merry 
black eyes, and an obstinately black and 
visible mustache. I went the rounds of the 
house and garden, saw all the historical 
places, and, finally, my wife’s narrow, neat 
little room, where a bed for the child had 
just been made on the sofa. It was then 
vacation, and most of the scholars were vis- 


94 A DIVIDED HEART. 


iting their parents. I was invited to dine ; 
but although we remained by ourselves and 
chatted about many things, what had taken 
place in the morning was not once mention- 
ed. When I departed at nine o’clock, in- 
tending to spend the night in a hotel, my 
wife pressed my hand warmly, yet, at the 
same time, with a look which forbade any 
further tenderness—I remained in uncer- 
tainty whether out of respect for the half- 
cloister-like house-customs or from another 
reason. 

“T brooded over it for a time. But I 
was so extremely tired by my hard day, that 
I fell asleep almost instantly in my cheer- 
less hotel room, and was awakened by the 
morning sun. 

“We took a carriage to return to Ver- 
nex. Since our little daughter sat opposite 
us, any expression of deep feeling was of 
course impossible. On arriving at the 
house, the child at once ran out into the 
garden with a playfellow. We two ascend- 
ed the stairs, passing our friend’s empty 
apartment. 

“<¢T have regards for you,’ I said; ‘she 
went away early yesterday morning. She 
will write to you from Paris.’ 


A DIVIDED HEART. 95 


“ My wife looked at me with a charming 
smile, half shy and half roguish. 

“*¢T too havea greeting for you,’ she said ; 
‘at any rate, the last hand-clasp, after we 
had embraced three times, was certainly in- 
tended for you. But the letter from Paris 
will be omitted. We made no arrange- 
ments for acorrespondence. Yes,’ she con- 
tinued, as I looked wonderingly at her, ‘ I 
do not have fine ears in vain. I heard very 
plainly how my lord and master paid his 
morning call below, and knew from the un- 
usual stir and movement that her departure 
was decided upon. I wished to accompany 
her a little distance. Why should we part 
so silently and secretly? Did we think un- 
kindly of each other? I, at least, was not 
vexed because she found you lovable; she 
shared that weakness with me. And how 
could she help it that I had met you first ? 
For a moment I even thought of begging 
her to remain. But that would have been 
a foolish challenge to fate. But I sat by 
her side as far as Vevey, and we explained 
ourselves as well as we could without call- 
ing things by name. Are you satisfied with 
me ?” 

“ She held out her hand. I took it some- 


96 A DIVIDED HEART. 


what hesitatingly. ‘If you were only satis- 
fied with me!’ I exclaimed. ‘I found her 
miserably unhappy, as if she had done some- 
thing for which she could never forgive 
herself. It seemed unknightly to let her 
believe that I was cold to her feeling. So 
I expressed myself, and truly, called things 
by their right names. Indeed, at the last, 
I kissed her on both eyes, and she suffered 
it. This is all I have on my conscience.’ 

“¢Tt is little—and yet, quite enough,’ she 
replied softly ; ‘let us speak of it no more.’ 

“ And so it was. Indeed, I not only 
ceased to speak of her, but in an unexpect- 
edly short time forgot to think of her. 
Many things aided me in this. I was hasti- 
ly called home by a letter from my inspect- 
or, for my presence on the estate had be- 
come imperative. Then came an early win- 
ter which brought me many cares, since I 
was occupied with the purchase of a small 
neighboring estate. In these cares of house 
and field, my wife, with her prudent fore- 
thought and encouraging cheerfulness, was 
of the greatest assistance, and no one, see- 
ing us together, would have suspected any 
change in our admirably sympathetic life. 
And yet there was a change. 


A DIVIDED HEART. 97 


“ A sword lay between us, invisible, but 
not unfelt. 

‘* At first I bore it calmly, when she 
quietly but firmly resisted any show of ten- 
derness on my part. In other waysshe was 
not cold or distant towards me; in fact, her 
loving care increased, and she constantly 
endeavored to fulfill even my unexpressed 
wishes. But a certain shy reserve never 
left her. When I finally asked if my pres- 
ence was distasteful to her, or if she wished 
to punish me by denying these innocent 
caresses, she shook her head earnestly and 
blushed like a girl. 

“¢T am notsure that you will understand 
me,’ she said. ‘ But it seems to me as if 
we were never alone, as if some one else 
were looking in on our privacy, and even 
you—it seems as if yousaw me and another 
at the same time. Let us wait awhile. We 
_ shall somehow succeed in being alone 
again.’ 

“The winter and part of the summer 
passed by. The letter from Paris did not 
come. Politics were added to my usual oc- 
cupations, and my head was full of symbols 
and party programmes. When, now and 
then, I had time to observe my inner self, 


98 A DIVIDED HEART. 


I found only one of the two heart-chambers 
occupied, and that one filled with the most 
ardent love. The other was as empty 
and musty as a room which has not 
been aired or opened to the sun for a long 
time. On the wall hung a picture whose 
frame was dusty and whose colors were 
faded. 

“JT was scarcely surprised that this had 
happened so quickly. In the strange sec- 
ond courtship in which I was living with 
my wife, my passionate nature was com- 
pletely engrossed by distress at our estrange- 
ment. But I knew that she was not to be 
won ‘ with prayers, and with whinings, and 
with self-exalting pains.’ Perhaps another 
dream will come to your aid, thought I. 
The transformation occurred in the day- 
time, however. 

“ One morning we were sitting at break- 
fast alone, for the child had a study hour 
with the pastor. Among the papers which 
we were looking over was a French one, 
which a neighbor received and shared with 
us. I was glancing mechanically down the 
columns, when my eyes suddenly fastened 
on a name. 


“* Look!’ said I; ‘at length we have the 


A DIVIDED HEART. 99 


explanation of the missing Parisian letter. 
Have you read it?’ 

“She looked at me searchingly, but did 
not reply. 

“Tn court circles they are talking of the 
betrothal of the Duke of C. to the beauti- 
ful Countess Lucile of —-———_, who, as is 
well known, enjoys the intimacy of the im- 
perial court, and whose husband met such 
a sad end three months ago after a great 
loss in play at Monaco. They say the em- 
press has given the bride a magnificent 
ornament, andsoon. I own,’ I added, ‘ that 
no news has given me greater pleasure for 
along time. Poor Lucile! She certainly 
deserved imperial reparation for her sor- 
rowful youth.’ 

“ My wife still remained silent. Then, 
rising, she came and threw her arms around 
me, and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘I 
have known it since yesterday,’ she said. 
‘ Will you believe that I was weak enough to 
fear how you might receive it?’ 

“<QOh, child” I said, ‘you have always 
seen ghosts. Will you now believe that we 
are alone ?’ 

“From that day there was never a shad- 
ow between us. Our happiness, like every 


100 A DIVIDED HEART. 


other real happiness, was never exhausted. 
Our motto might have been those beautiful 


words: 
«“« The more I give to thee, 
The more I have, for both are infinite.’ 


“ And when the end came—after three 
short years—the effect was immeasurable, 
as in all true endings. But of that I cannot 
speak.” 


He stood up. Just then the clock struck 
one. 

“Thave detained you a long time,” he 
said: “ Now I shall take you home by the 
shortest way. You will be wet through.” 

In fact, a light, warm rain was beginning 
to fall. 

“ And do you know nothing more about 
the Countess?’ I asked. “I confess, her 
hasty marriage touches me strangely. Per- 
haps she wished to end all hopeless long- 
ings.” 

“You wrong her,” he said; “there is 
something more to be told. I myself 
thought that, but must humbly apologize 
for it. You know that when I became a 
widower I could find no rest anywhere. I 
leased my estates, and took my daughter to 


A DIVIDED HEART. ~ 101 


that excellent dame at Vevey, who had 
been such a true friend to her mother. 
People often congratulated me upon pos- 
sessing in the child a perfect likeness of the 
mother. But this resemblance affected me 
peculiarly. Iwas pained that she should 
resemble her mother physically, without 
showing a trace of spiritual likeness. She 
was much like me, and had my love of 
music. But this did not make me happy; 
indeed, rather sharpened my pain; and it 
is only recently that I have been able to 
recognize and enjoy the many good and 
lovable traits which she possesses. 

“ Only by continual movement, by cease- 
less journeying from place to place, could I 
conquer my uneasiness. I had been a home- 
less and joyless man for nearly two years, 
and had advanced to the limits of the thir- 
ties. I had tried occasionally, from a sense 
of duty, to interest myself in business. I 
scarcely need to say that [had replied with 
a mere shrug of the shoulders whenever 
solicitous friends, especially women, urged 
me to a second marriage. 

“Tt happened one autumn day that, much 
against my will, I was obliged to stop in 
Switzerland and look after one of my es- 


102 A DIVIDED HEART. 


tates which was to have a new tenant. 
After staying for several weeks in Engel- 
berg, I came down the road to Stansstad on 
a most beautiful, sunshiny day, to cross the 
lake to Luzerne. 

“ About half way down there is a pleas- 
ant spot under magnificent walnut-trees, 
where the wagons coming up from the val- 
ley usually stop for a quarter of an hour to 
breathe their horses. As I reached the 
first houses I saw a carriage stop in front of 
the inn, and two ladies presently alight 
from it. One of them, dressed entirely in 
black, attracted my attention by her grace- 
ful bearing. She had already vanished into 
the house, when I suddenly remembered 
who it was that had carried herself so. A 
slight depression fell upon me. But I at 
once determined to pass on without attempt- 
ing to confirm my suspicions. 

“ As my light open wagon was rolling by 
the inn, a face only too well known to me 
looked from an upper window. . She recog- 
nized me at once; I saw it by the startled 
way in which she drew back, as if a phan- 
tom from some long-buried past had sud- 
denly risen before her. In the next instant 
she controlled herself sufficiently te bow to 


A DIVIDED HEART. 103 


me. There was nothing else to do. I 
stopped and hastened to her. 

“She met me perfectly unchanged; her 
beauty was only heightened by an addition- 
al fulness; her cheeks, with their ivory 
color, were slightly flushed from the excite- 
ment of this meeting 

“ She took my hand in both of hers and 
pressed it warmly, asif I were an old friend. 

“¢T know everything about you,’ she 
said ; ‘I sorrowed with you, and how deep- 
ly! Although you did not know. I tried 
several times Ks write—but the words al- 
ways failed me.’ 

“ At first I could say dbditing in reply. 
I felt with too much consternation that her 
power over me was as strong as in those 
first days. The tones of her voice; her 
dark, often passionately burning eyes ; the 
beautiful lips that seemed to have forgot- 
ten to smile; the whole witchery of long 
ago was again active. We walked up and 
down the empty room; her companion did 
not appear. I could hardly preserve a tol- 
erable composure. 

“Jnstead of personal things, I spoke 
about her journey, and learned that she was 
to remain a week or two in Engelberg. 


104 A DIVIDED HEART. 


Her nerves were unstrung; she suffered 
from insomnia. Then her brother was to 
come for her, as she had decided to ae- 
company him to his embassy at Madrid. 

“ ¢ And your husband ¢’ I asked careless- 
ly. She looked at me distantly, almost re- 
proachfully. ‘He has not been among the 
living for some years,’ she said in a mono- 
tone; ‘I thought you knew it. Were not 
the sad circumstances of his suicide at 
Monaco in all the papers ?’ 

“ ¢ Oertainly,’ I replied ; ‘ but I read of a 
new marriage—’ 

“-¢ Tt was a foolish rumor,’ she said, star- 
ing gloomily at the ground ; ‘ I would never 
have left my brother to play a rdle in the 
farce of the Second Empire. Could you 
really believe that of me ?’ 

“T was unable to answer. A storm was 
raging in me which swept away all power 
of thought. She was free,and I? Was 
I still bound? How was it that her pow- 
er over me died in the very moment 
when I might have yielded without hesita- 
tion ? I saw the beautiful, once-loved wom- 
an near me; it seemed as if I had but to 
hold out my arms and take her, and—my 
arms hung heavily at my sides. Did a 


A DIVIDED HEART. 105 


sword lie between us then, as before be- 
tween my beloved wife and me? While 
we were standing silently side by side near 
the window, gazing down into the glorious 
valley, my mind became calm and clear. 
I realized distinctly and sadly that if I now 
offered her half of my heart I should act 
immorally. Strangely enough, these words 
sounded always in my ears, ‘She sleeps, 
that we may be happy ;’ and even while I 
felt all the magie of her warm, breathing 
life, a cold shudder ran through me, as if 
a corpse were standing near, a past far 
mightier than the most warm-blooded pres- 
ent. 

“Ont of sight is indeed i mind. 

“She must have perceived my feeling. 
She too was silent, and I saw her bosom 
heaving painfully. She asked about my 
daughter, but evidently did not hear my 
answer. An intense pity seized me as I 
looked at her—the beautiful, noble, un- 
happy woman, with so long a life before 
her still and so little hope of happiness. 
Was it a foolish, unreal fear that prevented 
me from taking her in my arms? Do you 
believe that I could possibly have been 
happy with her? Who can know how the 


106. A DIVIDED HEART. 


years will change one! But at that time 
it would have been a lie and a crime. 

“The companion came with a glass of 
milk. Lucile drank a little and returned 
the glass with a gesture of aversion. ‘I 
am no longer thirsty,’ she said ; ‘is the car- 
riage ready ?” 

“T offered my arm to escort her down. 
On the stairs she stopped an instant. 

“ ¢Do you play much now?’ she asked. 

“¢T have not touched the violin since I 
became a widower,’ I replied. ‘Music is a 
pleasure only when one is cheerful and 
sociable. In solitude it revives all buried 
sorrows, ” 

“ <Yes,’ she said, ‘it does, and one is 
grateful for it. There are people so poor 
that their only possessions consist of old 
griefs, without which they could not live. 
They remind one that there was once a time 
when the heart was living, for only a living 
heart can feel misery. You have the ad- 
vantage of me in not feeling this truth.’ 

“T felt her hand trembling on my arm. 
‘Lucile!’ I cried, pressing her arm to me. 
Who knows what might have happened 
then if, her pride being suddenly roused, 
she had not drawn away from me and 


A DIVIDED HEART. - 407 


hastened down the remaining steps alone. 
Before I could reach her she was seated in 
the carriage. 

“¢Farewell! Remember me to your 
daughter. And—no! I was about to say 
Au revoir! But we shall probably never 
meet again.’ 

“She extended her hand to me from the 
carriage with a look that hurt me, for it 
seemed to ask whether I had either hope 
or desire to see her again. I bent over the 
small, white hand, and kissed it. Then the 
horses started, and I stood alone in the 
sunny street, until her veil, fluttering in 
the fresh mountain breeze, vanished from 


my sight.” 





















































MINKA 


en 


* 
9 





MINKA. 


—_—_—. 


Ir was a few years after the French war. 
The fall review had incidentally brought to- 
gether again a number of young officers 
who had earned their iron crosses in the 
army of the Loire, and they had invited good 
comrades from other regiments to join them 
and celebrate the reunion from an inex- 
haustible bowl. Midnight was past. The 
talk, which for some time had concerned 
personal recollections and experiences, had 
taken a thoughtful turn and was becoming 
profound. It was impossible to realize how 
many were absent without touching on the 
everlasting riddle of human life. Besides, 
the horrible death of a popular young hero, 
who had fallen into the hands of the France- 
tireurs, and been killed in the most revolt- 
ing manner, and the consequent destruction 
of a treasure of brilliant gifts and talents, 
hopes and promises—had brought again to 


112 MINKA. 


the front the old problem, whether univer- 
sal destiny and the fate of the individual will 
be according to our idea of justice; or 
whether the individual’s weal or woe will 
be quietly subordinated to the vast, mys- 
terious design of the universe. All the 
well-known reasons for and against a provi- 
dence ruling morally and judging right- 
eously, as human beings conceive it, were 
discussed again and again; and at length 
the oldest and most distinguished of the 
young soldiers formulated, from the ani- 
mated argument, this result :—that even 
the most enthusiastic optimist, in face of 
the erying horrors to which poor humanity 
is exposed, cannot prove the existence of a 
compensating justice on earth ; indeed, can 
only save his belief in a righteous God by 
hoping for a world to come. 

“ But will donkeys go to heaven, too ?” 
suddenly asked a calm, rich voice from a 
quiet corner. : 

For a moment all were silent. Then fol- 
lowed an outburst of gay laughter, agree- 
ably enlivening to the majority, who were 
tired of the philosophical talk. 

“Hear! hear!” cried some. 

* One will not be able to understand his 


MINKA. 113 


own speech at doomsday if all the resur- 
rected donkeys bray to one another,” said a 
lively young captain. “ Although, Eugene, 
if the sainted Antonius’s pig is in heaven— 

“ And so many pious sheep!” another 
broke in. 

“You forget that the question is long 
since decided,” said a third ; “one has only 
to read Voltaire’s ‘Pucelle’ in so many 
cantos !” 

“Were you merely joking, Eugene?” 
then asked the senior president, who had 
not joined in the laugh, “or was the ques- 
tion seriously meant, because it is certainly 
not yet decided whether or no an immortal 
soul lives in animals also ?” 

The person thus addressed was a young 
man about thirty years of age, the only one 
at the banquet who wore civilian’s dress. 
A severe wound had forced him to give up 
a military career. Since then he had lived 
on his small estate, more occupied with the 
study of military science than with the 
tilling of his fields. He had come to the 
city on the occasion of the review in order 
to see his old friends. : 

“The question,’ he now said very ear- 
nestly, “is really not my own, but is a quo- 


114 MINKA. 


tation, whose brusque simplicity embar- 
rassed me myself not long ago. <A strange 
little story, certainly not a cheerful one, de- 
pends on it. But since we have again 
soared into speculations which are beyond 
jesting, it may perhaps be fitting if I tell 
where the quotation originated. I can 
hardly maintain that the story is calculated 
to throw any light on the dark problem.” 

“Only tell it,” cried one after another. 

“Who knows whether the donkey that 
you will ride before us may not finally open 
his mouth, like Balaam’s prophetic ass, and 
teach us the system of the world.” 

Eugene shook his head with a peculiar 
smile, and began. “You know that I suf- 
fered from my wound during the entire 
winter of ’71 and ’72, and could only limp 
around with a cane. When spring came, I 
surrendered myself to the care of my mar- 
ried sister. My brother-in-law’s manor is 
surrounded by endless pine forests, in which 
I was to take air baths. Whatever I gained 
in physical strength, as I wandered about 
each day in those lonely thickets, or lay 
lazily buried in cushions of deep, luxuriant 
moss, I lost again in my moral condition. 
Even in the hospital I had not seemed to 


MINKA. 115 


myself such a miserable cripple as here. 
Everything about me was overflowing with 
life and strength; every old knot bore 
countless bright-green shoots; even a rot- 
ten stump made itself useful as barracks for 
a swarming army of ants—and I, con- 
demned to detestable idleness at twenty- 
four—enough! I moped about half the 
time, and was on very bad terms with God 
and the world. 

“ About this time, too, I lived through a 
sickness which might have ended my brood- 
ing. The neighborhood is thinly popu- 
lated ; the people are very poor ; the women 
frightfully ugly, Bohemian types degener- 
ated by crossing with the Saxons, pinched 
and rendered half savage through privation 
and suffering. But I was perfectly con- 
tented that nothing charming crossed my 
path. It would have made the conscious- 
ness of my invalidism still more painful. 
You know, indeed, how long it takes for 
the last trace of the typhoid poison, so 
paralyzing to all energy, to disappear from 
one’s system. The North Sea was to dome 
this service. 

“Well, for several weeks, like mad Ro- 
land, though somewhat more mildly, I 


116 MINKA. 


roamed through pine and fir-covered ra- 
vines without making a shot, although a 
hunting-piece was slung at my back. It 
was truly, in spite of all world-griefs, a 
heavenly time; never have I had such inti- 
mate acquaintance with nature, never felt 
so vividly what is meant by ‘our mother 
earth’ and ‘our father air.’ But that does 
not belong here. I will come to the point. 

* One afternoon I allowed myself to be 
lured farther than usual from the house by 
a most beautiful path winding among young 
woods, whose slender trees, scarcely taller 
than I, allowed the May sunlight to stream 
through unchecked. When I found myself 
entirely astray, I decided to strike through to 
the edge of the forest, in order to regain an 
open view. <A gentle slope, sparsely cover- 
ed with birches and berry-bushes, led up- 
wards. Beyond, through the tall firs which 
enclosed the clearing like a fence, I could 
see blue mountain-tops shimmering in the 
distance, and knew that I might thence 
easily find my way. But as I came out of 
the forest, I realized for the first time how 
far I had wandered. From the forest edge 
the land sank by a tolerably steep slope to 
a plain; and far below lay a small town, 


MINEA. 117 


well known to me on the map, but so dis- 
tant from our estate, that in all my recon- 
noitring I had never seen it till now. I was 
startled when I realized where I was, for, 
with my lame leg, I could not possibly 
undertake to returnon foot. But I thought 
I might obtain a team in the village. 

“JT seated myself on a newly-fallen 
trunk to rest a little before descending to 
the town. The land beneath me lay in the 
deep calm of afternoon; thin clouds of 
smoke drifting up from the chimneys of the 
old houses announced that the good house- 
wives were making their coffee. The broad, 
level plain, gayly checkered with fields of 
promising, green crops, stretched beyond ; 
while almost exactly half way between the 
forest-edge and the first houses, and border- 
ed by a few bushes and elders, lay a great 
fish-pond, peculiarly dark in color, although 
the purest spring-heaven was mirrored 
therein. The ground about it was marshy, 
and it seemed as though all the water of 
the neighborhood flowed into the depression 
as into some monstrous cistern. I do not 
know why the black basin appeared so un- 
canny to me, for the birds nesting in the 
shrubbery on its banks flew over it con- 


118 MINKA. 


tinually with cheerful twitterings. But my 
gloomy humor drew nourishment just then 
from the most innocent sources. 

“When I finally raised my eyes to look 
about for some smooth, gradually-descend- 
ing path, I noticed at the right, scarcely a 
stone’s throw from my seat, a forlorn, mean 
little house standing in shadow close by 
the roots of the foremost trees. The old, 
tumbled-down fence surrounding a bit of 
ground ; the dove-cot, in which no living 
thing was stirring; the tiled roof, whose 
damages had been poorly repaired with 
shingles and stones from the fields—all 
looked desolate and dilapidated, but since a 
path must surely lead thence to the town, 
I arose and dragged myself slowly towards 
the hut. 

“As soon as I perceived the extreme 
desolation of the old barracks, I gave up my 
conjecture that a lumberman dwelt there. 
All the mortar had fallen away from the 
wall on the weather side, and the rain 
must have had free entrance through the 
holes in the deeply sunken roof. The piece 
of land behind the crumbling fence, which 
in times past might have supported a little 
garden or a few vegetable beds, had become 


MINKA. 119 


a waste rubbish heap, upon which a single 
black hen tripped about, excitedly scratch- 
ing between the weeds and nettles for 
something eatable. The north side, turned 
towards the slope, had two small windows 
with broken panes; and in the middle, a 
door standing wide open. I glanced into 
the unattractive entrance. No human be- 
ing was to be seen or heard. I was about 
to go back and follow a little foot-path 
which seemed to wind down into the valley, 
when I was startled, indeed, truly frighten- 
ed, by a donkey’s bray; for never in my 
life have I heard that odd ery given so pas- 
sionately, and with such peculiarly mourn- 
ful modulation, as at that moment. 

“The cry of pain came from the other 
side of the house. As I turned the corner, 
I saw in the meadow, close to the wall, an 
idyllic group crouched in the young grass : 
an old woman, clothed in a torn jacket of 
flowered calico and a coarse woollen petti- 
coat, and wearing wound about her head a 
gray handkerchief, from beneath which her 
black hair, thickly sprinkled with gray, 
hung down in disorder; and near her, 
stretched upon the ground, a young don- 
key with noticeably slender limbs, dark- 


120 MINKA. 


edged ears, and a coat of silver-gray, adorn- 
ed on the back with a black stripe extend- 
ing to the head. It was a fine animal, an 
honor to its race, and it would certainly 
have taken a prize at any show. But I im- 
mediately perceived why the poor creature 
relieved its oppressed heart in so particular- 
ly doleful a manner. A hand’s-breadth on 
its left shoulder-blade was disfigured by a 
foul wound ; this the old woman was at- 
tempting to cover with wet bandages, al- 
though the wounded brute restively tried 
to prevent her merciful ministrations with 
kicks and stampings of its forelegs. A 
shallow bowl by the woman’s side held some 
dark liquid, with which she saturated the 
rag in order to cool the wound. She quiet- 
ly continued this operation as I approached 
her. 

beh -morning, dame!’ said I. She 
merely nodded her head wearily. Begin- 
ning to speak of the wound, I asked how it 
had been received, and what remedy she 
was using. No answer. It occurred to me 
that she did not understand German. But 
as I turned away, exclaiming half to my- 
self, ‘What a pity! Such a beautiful 
brute!’ her gray eyes suddenly flashed so 


MINKA. 121 


powerfully upon me from under her bushy, 
black brows, that the whole withered, leather- 
colored face seemed ten years younger. 

“< Yes indeed, sir!’ she said in notably 
pure German, with but a slight Bohemian 
accent. ‘It istrulya pity, and Minkais cer- 
tainly beautiful. If only you had seen her 
before she was hurt! She could jump about 
almost like a young horse, and her coat 
was like silk and velvet. Now, for seven 
months she has lain thus miserably on her 
belly, and if she gets up on her legs, how 
her knees bend, poor creature! Besides, 
what use isshe? “ Betty Lamitz,” said the 
forest warder only yesterday, as he passed 
and saw the trouble I had with the brute— 
for now one must bring even its bit of fod- 
der close to its muzzle—“ you should have 
her killed,” said he; “ the skinner will give 
you a thaler for the hide.” “But no!” 
said I; “it’s only a beast, but it shall have 
eare like any other Christian being, or like 
an honest servant fallen sick in service !” 
Yes, so Isaid. Whoa, whoa, Minka! don’t 
roll about so! Look, sir, she lies on her 
back and rubs her wound all the time, so no 
plaster holds, and it spreads farther and 
farther. Whoa! Be still!’ 


122 MINKA, 


“Then, fairly embracing the beast, she 
tried to quiet it, and keep it in its bed. 
Suddenly she released it, ran to a wooden — 
well standing in shadow back of the house, 
and having filled a low pail from the old 
stone trough into which the water was trick- 
ling down, she thrust it under her charge’s 
pink muzzle. Minka drank in long draughts, 
and her feverish excitement visibly abated. 
The old woman sat near her, looking on 
with great contentment, and seeming once 
more entirely oblivious to my presence. 

“At length I repeated my inquiry as to 
the origin of the bad wound between the 
shoulder-blades. But the old woman again 
remained silent; she merely sighed, and 
scratched her lean arms with her withered 
fingers till white streaks stood up on the 
brown skin. 

“< Yes, yes!’ she said absently, after a 
long while—‘such a poor female! What 
matters beauty against bad luck? And how 
she has worked, always cheerfully and will- 
ingly! I could load her as much as I 
wished, she never once kicked, or even 
shook her ears at me. To be sure, I have 
brought her up from her tenth day. She 
was a twin. The forester at Freithof had 


MINKA. 123 


a she-ass that presented him one morning 
with Minka and her sister. “Would you 
like to have a handsome nursling, Mother 
Lamitz?” said he, just for a joke. Well, I 
held him to his word. He owed me a little 
gold for a piece of linen that I had woven 
for him. <A couple of florins were still 
lacking, and for them I took the young ass. 
I had trouble enough, first in getting it 
home, and then in raising it, for milk was 
scarce with us. But we have never rued it. 
A hard worker, sir, this Minka! We have 
had to drag many things from the woods, 
berries and mushrooms down to market in 
summer, then our winter wood, and what- 
soever else was needful. I—good heavens! 
I can trace all my bones, although I am 
barely fifty, and Hannah—well, she was 
still too weak. And look you, such a faith- 
ful beast, a god-send, our only help—to be 
so hurt and disgraced in its young years— 
oh !? 

“<¢Tjame,’ said I, ‘look at me! Itoo am 
still young, yet I limp through the world, 
and my food must be brought to me be- 
cause I can no longer gain it by my own 
strength ; and whoever gives a thaler for 
my hide is a fool and a spendthrift. Yet 


124 MINKA. 


who knows, but that sometime we shall 
both prance gayly about once more.’ 

“]T chatted in this strain for some time to 
cheer her, but, without heeding me, she 
stared fixedly at the wound. She had mean- 
while covered it with a firm plaster, since 
the brute would no longer suffer the bath- 


ing. 

“¢Tell me once for all, she suddenly 
commenced, and by the gleam of her eyes 
I saw that when young she must have 
been far from homely—‘ tell me once for 
all, sir, do you believe that donkeys go to 
heaven 4’ 

“T laughed. 

“¢ Why do you ask that, mother? 

“¢T once asked our parson about it. He 
said.it was a foolish question ; that only Chris- 
tian people go to heaven ; and that animals 
have no immortal souls. “ But, parson,” 
said I, “if the great God is just and merci- 
ful, why doesn’t He pity the beasts too, as 
human beings do if they are not scoundrels ? 
For instance, why does Minka’s sister live 
like a princess, have nothing to do but draw 
a little play-wagon in which the young 
masters take an occasional pleasure drive, 
always receive kind words and the best fod- 


MINKA. 125 


der, and even have a love-affair with the 
valley-miller’s donkey? And our Minka, 
who has just as good a character, who wears 
herself out with work, and is often on her 
legs with a load for ten hours together, now 
has all four struck from under her, and if 
she should die to-morrow, what pleasure in 
life has she had? Is that just, parson ? 
And if it is not sometime paid back to her 
there above—” But then he forbade me 
to speak, and said such blasphemy led 
straight to hell. You tell me, sir, do you 
know anything about it ?’ 

“You can imagine that I did not have 
the most spirited expression, when the pis- 
tol was thus placed against my breast, and 
the explanation of the world-secret de- 
manded of me. Fortunately, however, just 
at that moment a woman’s clear voice be- 
gan to sing within the house, and with it 
one heard a child’s feeble crying, which the 
song was evidently intended to still. 

“* Who is singing there, Mother Lamitz ?’ 
I asked. 

“* Who should it be but Hannah?’ she 
grumbled. 

“« Your daughter? May I venture to 
look in at her?’ 


126 MINKA. 


“The old woman did not reply ; mutter- 
ing to herself, she took the pail and-carried 
it back to the well; then she rolled forward 
a wheelbarrow piled high with grass and 
weeds, and busied herself in giving hand- 
fuls to the sick beast, almost shoving the 
food into its mouth. I did not wait long 
for an expressed permission, but approached 
the house, and, after knocking, entered by 
the door at the left. 

“A suffocating steam greeted me, mix- 
ed with the smell of some drying clothes, 
which hung across the room on a tightly 
stretched rope. I saw immediately that there 
were only a few miserable swaddling-clothes 
and baby-frocks, coarse and much patched. 

“In one corner stood a great loom, thick- 
ly covered with dust; in the other, upon 
a heap of straw, distinguishable from the 
bed of an animal only by a woollen cover- 
ing, sat a fair-haired young woman, holding 
a half naked babe at her breast. She her- 
self had nothing on her body but a shirt, 
which had fallen far down on her shoul- 
ders, and a red woollen petticoat, which left 
her white feet visible to the ankles. 

“ As I entered, she gazed at me search- 
ingly, and for an instant ceased her singing. 


MINKA. 127 


She seemed to have expected someone else ; 
but, seeing that I was an entire stranger, 
she at once recommenced her cradle-song, 
though somewhat more softly, apparent- 
ly not at all disturbed because I had sur- 
prised her in the performance of a mother’s 
most sacred duty, and in such incomplete 
attire. 

“ As she sang she occasionally smiled at 
me, showing the pretty teeth in her large 
mouth; and I noticed that she clasped the 
child closer to her bared breast, and tried 
to draw the shirt up over her shoulders. 
Therewith a slight redness tinged her round, 
white face, and her blue eyes assumed a 
half imploring, half simple and dreamily 
vacant, expression. 

“T excused myself for intruding; her 
mother had allowed me to come in; I 
would immediately go out again if she 
wished. She hummed her song without ap- 
pearing to notice me; but from time to 
time she would suddenly lift her eyes, as 
if to see whether I were still there; then 
bite her full, red under-lip ; rock the child 
back and forth ; and, with her bare feet in 
the straw, beat time to her song. 

“ The child, which was but a few months 


128 MINKA. 


old, had drunk and cried itself to sleep. The 
cradle-song grew ever softer ; at length the 
young mother, kneeling down, wrapped the - 
little one, which lay before her like some 
rosy, waxen doll, in a great woollen shawl. 
In the corner near the pillow I observed 
a little couch made of old rags and tatters. 
On this the baby was gently and carefully 
laid, and, in spite of the heat, covered yet 
again. - 

“ Then the mother, always as if entirely 
alone in the room, began to let down and 
rebraid her tangled, yellow hair. The 
rest of her toilet seemed to be perfectly 
satisfactory. 

“ Indeed, no elegant costume could have 
displayed the poor young woman’s charm- 
ing figure to more aseniner The face 
was too like the old woman’s to be considered 
pretty. Yet in the coloring and youthful 
contour of that round little head lay acharm, 
which was not lessened even by an evident 
trace of absent-mindedness, or downright 
imbecility. I felt intense sympathy for the 
poor, half-foolish creature, singing her lulla- 
by so contentedly in such pitiable depriva- 
tion of all usual nursery comforts. 

“She did not answer any of my ques- 


MINKA, 129 


tions even by a gesture. Since they had 
plenty of wood and did not grudge it, the 
oven was heated almost to bursting; al-. 
though the air without was mild enough, 
even here on the windy height. SoI did 
not wait until she finished arranging her 
heavy braids, but laid a shining thaler on 
the edge of the loom, nodded kindly to the 
harmless creature, and left the room. 

“T found the old woman no longer by her 
sick darling, but at the well, where she was 
cleaning a handful of turnips and cutting 
them into a pot. 

“¢ Mother Lamitz,’ said I, ‘you have a 
very pretty daughter. But she would not 
speak a word tome. Is she always so si- 
lent with strangers ?” 

“The old woman contracted her brows 
and stared gloomily at the pot which she 
held between her knees. In this attitude 
she might have served an artist as model 
for a witch preparing some noxious po- 
tion. 

“¢ Silent?’ she asked after a pause. ‘No, 
sir; it is not her tongue that is lacking. 
When she will, she can chatter like a star- 
ling. The lackis above. She was so even as 
achild. Well, it was not sucha great shame. 


130 MINKA. 


If she had had the best sense, would that 
have helped a poor, fatherless thing like 
her? Did it matter to me that I had all 
my five senses right? I was cheated in 
spite of them, and therefore I care not a 
whit whether the brat to which she has 
given life takes after her, as people say, 
or after me. Either way, the little Mary 
will sometime become a mother on the sly, 
as it came into the world on the sly. It is 
in the family, sir, it is in the family” - 

.“ And then, after a pause, for I knew 
not what to say to this frank worldly wis- 
dom— Besides, the child will hardly grow 
old. Hannah treats it too foolishly. In- 
deed, reason has nothing to do with her 
actions. And when the winter comes, and 
we all must hunger—it is said, though, 
that God lets no sparrow fall from a roof 
without His will—I am curious to see 
whether He will trouble Himself about us 
four poor females up here.’ 

“Therewith she gazed pityingly at the 
donkey, which was now crouching quietly 
in its bedding. I could have laughed to 
see her so unconcernedly consider gray, 
long-eared Minka as the fourth in the fami- 
ly; but the horrible cold-bloodedness with 


MINKA, 131 


which she spoke of her child and grand- 
child was not humorous. 

“¢ You seem to care much more tenderly 
for the donkey than for your poor, little 
grandchild,’ I said severely. 

“ She nodded her head calmly. 

“<So it is,” she said; ‘Minka needs me 
more. If I die to-day, she must come toa 
miserable end. Do you think Hannah 
would throw her even an armful of grass, 
although the poor beast can no longer seek 
it herself? No; she hasno thought except 
for her baby, and beyond that, for the ras- 
cal who is its father. She waits for him 
every evening at sunset, although it is al- 
ready a half year since he last crossed our 
threshold. And withal she is as happy as 
any one can wish to be, considers the dear 
God a good man, and lets her old mother 
do all the housework without any help. 
Why should I pity her or her brat? Both 
are already as if in heaven, and if it goes 
hard with them, and they must hunger and 
freeze, can they not make that good here- 
after in Paradise? But Minka, look you, 
sir, has had no lover, and brought no young 
one into the world, and when she dies she 
will be thrown in the flaying-place, and 


132 MINKA. 


on doomsday, when we other poor sinners 
gather our bones together, of her nothing 
at all will be left, and it will never be cred- 
ited to her that she had a harder life than 
her twin sister. Look you, some other 
poor Christian mortal must pity the beasts 
if our Lord Jesus Himself cannot bring 
Himself to do it.’ 

“This logic allowed no reply. But I 
confess that the future of the little human 
being was more momentous to me, in spite 
of- its immortal soul, than the question 
whether Minka would lose or not in the 
final distribution of justice. If to-morrow 
the only person among these ‘ four females’ 
who had sound human sense should be 
struck by lightning, what would then be- 
come of the poor fool and her baby ? 

“*¢ Does the father do nothing at all for 
the little one?’ I asked at last. ‘The child 
is as beautiful as if carved out of ivory, and 
it is by no means certain that it will become 
like the mother. Has he never shown him- 
self again ?’ 

“¢ He!’ exclaimed the old woman, thrust- 
ing the knife with which she had been 
cleaning the turnips deep into the wooden 
well-spout. ‘If I should drag him to jus- 


MINKA. 133 


tice, he would swear himself free, that he 
would, although he is the town-judge’s own 
son. Do you think I did not see it in him, 
even the first time when he came into our 
little house to kindle his pipe at the hearth— 
so he said, the villain! He is unfortunately 
as pretty to look at as he is bad within, and 
the stupid thing, Hannah—she was still in- 
nocent, and I could let her wander all day 
long in the woods alone with Minka, filling 
the two panniers with berries and mush- 
rooms—she thought of no man then, and I— 
God knows how it came about! Just because 
she is so foolish and weak in her head, I im- 
agined that no one would trouble about her. 
But she pleased the judge’s son, and was 
herself instantly carried away with him. 
After that I had trouble enough with her. 
She had worked bravely till then in the 
house and garden, and no work was too 
hard for her. Now, of a sudden, half the 
day her hands in her lap, and if I began to 
scold she would smile at me like a child wak- 
ing from a lovely dream. If I sent her to 
the woods, she would bring the baskets back 
to the house scarcely a quarter full. It was 
Minka’s misfortune too. You cannot be- 
lieve, sir, how the beast clung to Hannah ; 


134 MINRA. 


it had human sense, anyway more than 
Hannah, and realized that the smart fellow 
with the black mustache had nothing good 
in mind. It always ran after the stupid 
girl, and gave a loud bray to warn her. I 
saw everything well enough, but what could 
Ido? Scoldings and warnings were use- 
less; she did not understand. And one 
cannot shut up a grown woman, who will 
use force to get out. She would have 
climbed from the window or even the chim- 
ney to rush into the very arms of ruin. 
Well, and so it happened. But the worst 
of it was that Minka suffered for it too. 
One evening she followed the girl into the 
woods, and soon afterward came limping 
home alone, with the wound in her neck, 
groaning and crying like a human being. 
Hannah came back an hour later. I ques- 
tioned her closely as to how the brute had 
received the wound. ‘“ Ha!” said she, 
laughing insolently, “she screamed all the 
time and crowded between us, although 
Frank tried to drive her back with blows ; 
so he suddenly became angry, drew his 
knife, and gave her a thrust.” I struck the 
shameless thing for laughing about it, and 
put salve on the wound. But Minka rolled 


MINKA. 135 


on her back asif crazy, and would bear no 
bandage, and so it has grown worse with 
her every day, and with Hannah too. 
Well, at least she has had her way, and noth- 
ing much better could have happened to 
her. Who would take one like her for his 
honest wife? And if sometime she real- 
izes that it is useless to wait for her lover, 
and becomes crazy with grief at his wicked- 
ness, then she has little wit to lose. Where- 
as Minka, sir, who is cleverer than many 
people, believe me, she lies for days pon- 
dering why good and bad are so unequally 
divided on the earth; why she has nothing 
but a ruined life, while her sister trots 
about elegant and happy; and why our 
good Lord did not arrange it so that donkeys 
might go to heaven, and obtain their re- 
ward for all the flaying and toiling, beat- 
ing and kniving, they have to bear. ’ 

“She uttered these last words with such 
violence that she was obliged to stop for 
breath. Then, brushing back the loose 
hairs at her neck, she tied her head-cloth 
more firmly, and took the pot of turnips on 
her arm. 

“¢] must go in, sir, she said hoarsely, 
‘or I shall go to bed hungry. Do you know 


136 MINKA. 


the town-judge and his fine son? It does 
not matter. He will not have to pay for 
what he did to my girl and to Minka until 
he stands before God’s throne. And for 
the rest, why should his conscience prick 
him? She wished nothing better; indeed, 
we all wish nothing better; if we were not 
silly, you men could not be bad. So it will 
be as long as the world lasts. At doomsday 
I shall not complain of that, but I shall ask 
our Lord whether donkeys go to heaven 
too, of that you may be sure—of that you 
may certainly be sure !’ 

“She nodded her head vigorously, pass- 
ed by without another look at me, and dis- 
appeared in the house. 

“You can imagine that, as I descended 
the slope, passing the black water, and 
finally reaching the village, all that I had 
seen and heard continually pursued me. 
Even when I had secured a carriage at the 
inn, and was rolling along the highway 
towards my brother-in-law’s house, the fig- 
ure of the old woman, and especially that 
of her blonde daughter with the naked 
babe clasped to her breast, seemed actually 
before my eyes. It chanced that my driver 
was an elderly man, who could give trust- 


MINKA. 137 


worthy answers to my questions about the 
inmates of the little house on the hill. He 
remembered Betty Lamitz’s sudden ap- 
pearance there twenty years ago very well. 
Her own home was in a neighboring place, 
where, her mother having died without 
leaving any property, the parish refused 
to receive her. She was a servant in an 
aristocratic house in Prague, and behaved 
properly enough until one of the sons of 
the house, an officer home on a furlough, 
noticed her. She had been a fine-looking 
person even at thirty, in spite of her flat 
nose and broad cheeks, a maid with un- 
usual eyes, and when she laughed—which to 
be sure she seldom did—she could cut out 
many younger women even then. But 
things simply went the usual way, in spite 
of her cleverness, and although she had al- 
ways said she would never do as her own 
mother had done. Of course her master 
did not keep her in the house. He gave 
her a suitable sum of money, with which 
she bought the forsaken hill-house and the 
bit of garden plot, and since then, as she 
would not go into service again, perhaps 
could not, she had lived there and brought 
Hannah up, in perfect retirement. For 


138 MINKA. 


the first few years the young count remem- 
bered her, and sent her something. After 
awhile he failed to do this, and she was 
obliged to struggle along by herself. She 
had done so; and certainly no one could 
aecuse her of grief at her child’s lack of 
reason. 

“Then my driver spoke of the sad af- | 
fair with the judge’s son, against whom he 
expressed himself in very strong terms. 
Every one knew about it. But he was the 
only son of a most respectable family, and no 
one could expect him to make amends for 
the foolish mis-step by an honest marriage. 
A wild, insane thing! Why didn’t the old 
woman watch her better? If he did a 
little something for the child, no one would 
blame him much for this youthful sin. 

“T listened without entering into any 
discussion of the moral aspect of the case. 
In my heart—I know not why—I felt such 
intense sympathy for the poor creature, 
that if her betrayer had come in my way, 
I would have thrashed him with much 
pleasure. 

“ My first action, when I saw my people 
again, was to tell them of my experience, 
and induce my good sister to take some in- 


MINKA. 139 


terest in the neglected young woman. 
She was true to her sympathetic nature. 
The next day she sent her ‘ Mamselle,’ an 
experienced, elderly person, in a carriage 
to Mother Lamitz’s hut, with a basket con- 
taining all sorts of good things—provisions 
for several weeks, baby-clothes, and several 
uncut dress pieces to provide for the win- 
ter. To this I added a trifle in cash, fully 
intending to go in person very soon, and 
see if this feeble attempt to make up the 
deficiencies of the world-system had been 
at all effectual. 

“But I did not go. Our physician 
ordered me to take sea-baths earlier than I 
expected. I merely heard that our gifts 
were received by the old woman with but 
moderate thanks, and by the young mother 
with child-like exultation. Then I depart- 
ed, remaining away the entire summer, and 
the inmates of that forest hut soon became 
of as little moment to me as any beggar 
into whose hat one tosses a groschen. 

“ Even when, after having washed away 
in the sea my invalidism and its accompany- 
ing world-sickness, I returned to the estate 
in the autumn for hunting, it did not occur 
to me for several weeks to inquire about 


140 MINKA. 


the ‘ four females.’ My sister and her hus- 
band had themselves been away, and been 
occupied with entirely different things. 
On a lonely tramp which I undertook one 
cold, cloudy, disagreeable day in the middle 
of October, I suddenly recollected that I 
had wandered over the same forest-path 
five months before, and that it had finally 
led me to the donkey with the ‘immortal 
soul.’ What might have happened to Minka 
in the meantime ? 

“T stepped along more briskly, for even- 
ing was already coming on. It was dark 
and comfortless in the forest; the moisture 
dripped heavily from the pines ; the little 
clearings, with their bushes and _ birches, 
were not so cheerful, in spite of the red 
berries hanging plentifully on their faded 
branches, as on that day in May, when I 
alone wore a troubled face. When I final- 
ly emerged from the pines at the edge of 
the height, the land below me and the 
purplish peaks on the horizon looked as 
strange as if a terrible storm were impend- 
ing. The air was perfectly still; one 
heard each drop falling on the dry leaves, 
and, from time to time, the crows, very nu- 
merous in that locality, cawing in the tree- 


MINKA. 141 


tops. The noise was so hateful to me that, 
in a sort of sudden fury, I snatched my gun 
. from my shoulder, and fired into the un- 
suspecting flock. A single bird fell fiut- 
tering and quivering at my feet. I felt 
ashamed of this childish outburst and hur- 
ried towards the hut, which, standing in its 
old place, and in the same condition, looked 
extremely desolate in the murky evening 
mist. 

“The enclosed space had beautified it- 
self with half a dozen tall sunflowers and 
with several rows of pumpkin-vines grow- 
ing over the rubbish-heap; but the black 
hen had evidently failed to outlive the 
summer. On the side of the house where 
the brook flowed, and where Minka had 
lain, there was no longer any trace of her. 
Possibly it was now too cold on this damp 
couch for the poor, wounded beast. But 
where had she gone? I laughed to myself 
as I realized that the fate of the brute 
creature was more interesting to me than 
that of the hut’s human inmates. Of them 
nothing was to be seen or heard. 

“ In the room where the loom stood, ex- 
cepting that the straw-bed was empty, every- 
thing appeared as at my first visit. But 


142 HMINEA. 


the oven was cold and all the windows 
were open. I pressed the door-latch of the 
single, mean chamber on the right of the 
narrow hall. Here I was amazed to find 
one at least of the ‘four females,’ the good 
Minka herself. She lay on a litter of yel- 
low leaves, moss, and pine-needles, close to 
a low hearth, whereon coals were still glow- 
ing; and as she saw me enter, she lifted 
her head wearily. 

“The old woman must have housed here, 
since, besides cooking utensils, all sorts of 
woman’s trumpery was lying about, while 
on the other side of the hearth stood an an- 
cient, grandfather’s chair, with torn cush- 
ions, plainly Mother Lamitz’s bedstead. 
She had evidently brought her sick darling 
into her immediate vicinity. 

“TI approached the poor creature and 
stroked her coat, for which attention her 
ears wagged a doleful gratitude. The 
wound had grown worse ; indeed, her whole 
condition was serious, and for the first time 
I saw on an animal something like the hip- 
pocratic face. Seeing that I was friendly, 
she made a painful effort to unburden her 
distressed heart ; but no longer able to ex- 
press herself satisfactorily, she soon became 


MINKA. 143 


silent again, and with an indescribably pit- 
eous look let her tongue loll from her 
mouth, thus taking away her last trace of 
beauty in my eyes. As I could not help 
her, I went out ina few moments, leaving 
the door open ; for the close air, which I 
could scarcely breathe, must have been 
equally unbearable for a sick donkey. 

“ Outside I looked about in all directions. 
Of grandmother, mother, or child—not a 
trace. In the forest—but what could they 
be seeking there so late, and in such hor- 
rible weather? They have gone down to 
the town, thought I, to make some pur- 
chases. But nobody knows when they will 
return. 

“ To await them in the damp hut was out 
of the question. I thought that perhaps 
I might meet them on the way down, as I 
intended to descend and return by the high- 
road, instead of the dark, slippery forest 
path. So once again I took the little path 
between the meadows, and heard then, for 
the first time, a muffled sound of musical in- 
struments, principally clarionets and contra- 
basses, evidently coming from the inn in 
the town below. Although dance music, it 
was far from merry ; indeed, it seemed but 


144 MINKA. 


a proper accompaninent to the melancholy 
song heaven and earth were singing togeth- 
er; as if cloud spirits were playing a waltz 
to which they might whirl matty over the 
cold mountain-tops. 

“ The neighborhood is not musical. Only 
occasionally, when a band of wandering 
Bohemians strays into this corner of the 
hills, does one hear merry tunes in lively 
time ; but even a Bohemian band can sel- 
dom set in motion the clumsy feet of the 
men and maids. 

“ However, that scarcely belongs to my 
subject. I will be brief. I had not taken 
twenty steps when I saw, down by the fish- 
pond, sitting on a mossy stone, a woman’s 
motionless figure, with the back turned tow- 
ard me. She seemed to be staring into 
the black water. I could scarcely see the 
outline, yet I recognized her at once. 

“‘Mother Lamitz!’ I cried, ‘Mother 
Lamitz !’ 

“ At the third call, and when I was very 
close to her, she slowly turned her head, 
but I could not see her eyes. 

“<« Why do you sit here on a wet stone, 
Mother Lamitz?’ Iasked. ‘Have you 
thrown a net and do you wish to haul your 


MINKA. 145 


eatch? Or for whom are you waiting in 
this unhealthy fog ?’ 

“She looked straight into my face, 
evidently trying to remember the person 
to whom these features and this voice 
belonged. But it dawned on her very 
slowly. 

“T helped somewhat by recalling to her 
mind my spring visit, and telling her that 
since then I had often considered whether 
or no donkeys would go to heaven, and had 
never arrived at any conclusion. She lis- 
tened silently, but I was not certain that 
she rightly understood my meaning, for she 
nodded continually, even when I asked a 
question demanding a negative answer. , 

“ But when I mentioned her daughter’s . 
name, she became suddenly alert, looking 
suspiciously at me from under her thick 
brows. 

“ «What do you want with Hannah ?’ she 
said. ‘She isnotat home. But she is very 
well, she and her brat. Did I tell you she 
was a trifle weak in the head? In that I 
lied. She had more sense than most of the 
foolish geese. Oh, I wish that I might 
have gone away so, but there are different 
gifts, and how does the Testament say ? 


146 MINKA. 


Those who are poor in spirit—yes, yes. 
O thou merciful One !’ 

“Stopping suddenly, she spread her 
hands on her knees and let her head fall 
upon her breast. 

“ She seemed more and more uncanny to 
me. It was ghastly there by the bank; the 
bats were beginning to flit among the low 
bushes, and the rising wind brought a mus- 
ty swamp odor. From below came the un- 
ceasing music of the clarionets and basses. 

“Merely to break the silence, I said, 
‘ There seems to be high festival in the inn 
down yonder. Is it a feast ?’ 

“ She sprang to her feet, again looking 
distrustfully at me. ‘Have you only just 
heard it? They have piped and fiddled so 
since noonday, and will go on till midnight. 
I have stopped my ears, but it is useless. 
Weddings are not funerals—one knows that 
very well—but if they knew, if they knew! 
To be sure they would not have one waltz 
the less. O thou merciful One!’ 

“¢ Whose wedding is it ?’ 

“Spitting violently, she cast a furious 
look across the pond towards the house 
from which the sounds arose. 

*** Go down there and look at the pair for 


MINKA. 147 


yourself,’ she snarled ; ‘they suit each other 
well. He is bad and handsome, and she is 
stupid and rich. A brewer’s daughter, she 
measures her money by the bushel. But 
she has reason enough to answer a question 
correctly, and she did not say no when the 
parson asked her if she wished the judge’s 
son for a husband.’ 

“¢'The judge’sson! He?’ Now, Sided, 
I knew the cause of the old woman’s fury. 

“<*Poor Hannah! And does she know 
what is going on down there?’ 

“ ¢ How could she help knowing, sir? Do 
you think there are not sympathetic souls 
enough to carry such news wherever they 
are likely to earn God’s blessing for it? 
She sat just before the door with her baby 
on her lap; she was decked out in her best 
clothes, that blue dress, you know, which 
the lady baroness sent her; and her baby 
was dancing to the music. Then the drug- 
gist’s maid came down, pretending that she 
passed by accident, but it was the wicked- 
est curiosity, dear sir, to see how the poor 
fool would act when she heard that her 
lover was holding his wedding feast down 
there. She did not tell it to Hannah. 
“Mother Betsey!” she screamed in to me, 


148 MINKA. 


“the judge’s son! What do you say to 
that ?” and then she abused the badness of 
the world. I merely blinked at her, for I 
thought I should sink into the earth. I 
never believed he would marry Hannah, 
but she waited for him every evening, and 
was so happy doing so, that she might 
have expected him for all eternity, and sung 
her cradle-songs contentedly. And now 
the whole baseness of it, and the news of 
the marriage with the brewer’s daughter, to 
come on her so suddenly—as if a trusted 
friend had thrust a knife in her breast. The 
words stuck in the spiteful tell-tale’s throat 
as she saw what she had done. She said 
she must hurry ; her mistress expected her, 
and she ran off. I went out and saw the 
poor thing sitting on the bank, with her 
head leaning back on the wall as if too heavy 
for her, and her eyes and mouth wide open. 

“<< Hannah !” I coaxed, “ do not believe — 
it—she lied,” and as much more as I could 
bear to say. She did not speak, but all at 
once laughed aloud, and stood up, holding 
her child fast in her arms. 

“<«« Where are you going?’ I said. 
“Come into the house. I will brew you 
some elder tea.” But it was as if she did not 


MINKA. 149 


hear me. She went slowly away from the 
house, down the path. I followed, trying to 
hold her back by her clothing, but there was 
something superhuman in her; her face 
was rigid and deathly pale. “ Hannah,” 
said I, “ you are not going to him? Think 
what they would say if you went to the 
wedding. They would say you were out of 
your wits, and by and by the law would 
come and take away the child, because they 
dare not leave it with an idiot.” 

“ «That brought her to her senses for a 
moment. She stood still, clasping the child 
silently, and sighing as if her soul would 
leave her body. I thought I had won, and 
that she would turn back with me and 
gradually give in. If she could have cried 
it would have been her salvation, but her 
eyes were perfectly dry, and I saw her stare 
continually at the house down there, as if 
she would pierce the walls and destroy that 
bad man and his bride with the wreath and 
veil. I begged her to come into the house. 
I realized then that I had nothing in the 
world but her, and I told her so, asking her 
to forgive me for all my roughness and un- 
kindness to her. Dear God, when one is 
so miserable, and another hungry mouth 


150 MINKA. 


comes into the house! But she heard noth- 
ing. The music seemed to bewitch her; 
she began to rock the child back and forth ; 
then of a sudden she gave a loud cry, as if 
her heart had broken, and before I knew 
what she meant to do, she was rushing down 
to the pond. Her loose hair streamed after 
her, the blue clothes fluttered, she ran so 
fast, and—O thou merciful One !—with my 
own eyes I saw it—child and grandchild! 
I tried to scream, I was choking; I ran like 
a madman ; as I came down, I saw only the 
black water, bubbling like a kettle at the 
place where—’ 

“She sprang up, and stood half bowed 
among the damp marsh grasses like a pic- 
ture of despair, both arms outstretched tow- 
ard the now motionless water. 

“T could not speak a word. Every in- 
stant I thought she would throw herself in 
after them. Thespot where we were stand- 
ing seemed peculiarly suitable for a suicide. 
The bank shelved perpendicularly into the 
depths ; no rushes grew out of the water ; 
the alder bushes, retreating, left a gap several 
feet in width; and even close to shore the 
water was as dark as if the depths were 
bottomless. 


MINKA. 151 


“But the old woman seemed to intend 
nothing violent. Her body relaxed again 
and her arms fell loosely on her hips. 

““Do you see anything there?’ she 
asked suddenly, in an undertone. 

“ «Where ?” 

“< Down there by the willow? No; it is 
nothing. I thought her hair came to the 
surface. But she is lying at the bottom. 
At first something yellow floated out on the 
water—I would swear it was her hair—and 
the long rake there, left since haying-time 
—if I had taken it, and fished for the hair 
with it, and twisted it fast around the prongs, 
I believe I could have pulled her to land 
even then. But say for yourself, sir, what 
would it have mattered? She would have 
jumped in again. And wouldn’t it have 
been wicked to rob her of the rest she has 
found down there? Who knows that I 
should have drawn out the poor brat with 
her! And without her only plaything, 
what could she do in the world?’ 

“She stopped again, rubbing her lean 
shoulders with her crossed arms as if she 
felt a fever-chill. The music paused in the 
inn below ; [heard the old woman’s quick, 
gasping breaths, and now and then a dis- 


152 MINKA. 


connected word as if of prayer. This sad 
stillness was suddenly interrupted by a 
hoarse bray from the woods above. We 
both looked around. 

“ Lame Minka stood before the hut’s door, 
giving her most doleful signal of distress. 
Against the dark background the outline of 
the beast’s gray form was plainly visible ; 
we could even see her shake her drooping 
ears. She must have noticed us, for though 
we did not call her, she started down the 
rough and tiresome road to her old nurse. 
“© Aye you coming, too?’ said the old 
woman. ‘Are you thirsty, because I for- 
got to fill your pail? Do you see, sir, that 
I am right? Minka has human reason. 
She too would make an end of her trouble 
and misery. And it is better so; it will 
take her at once from her suffering, and I 
—do you know, that I believe even yet that 
donkeys go to heaven? If not, why have 
they human reason? Who knows, when 
he fears to die, that it is really the end? 
And now look at Minka, how steadily she 
trots toward the black water. Come, Min- 
ka, come, poor fool! We will help you 
down.’ 

“ The brute came to the stone where the 


MINKA. ss 153 


old woman was crouching. It thrust its 
large head in her lap, and fell on its knees. 
The old woman helped it up again. 

**¢ Come, Minka,’ she repeated, ‘it will 
do no harm, and perhaps may help you to 
eternal happiness. Hannah has gone be- 
fore, with little Mary. Mother Betsey will 
soon follow.’ 

“ She drew the reluctant animal to the 
edge of the pond and tried to force it in. 
But entreaties and caresses were as vain as 
the pushes and blows to which she finally 
resorted. The poor victim, its whole body 
trembling, braced all four feet against the 
bank and gave a piteous cry. The old 
woman cast an imploring glance at me. 

“¢You have a gun at your back, sir. 
Will you not do my Minka this last kind- 
ness, and help her to her salvation? The 
Lord God will repay you the little powder 
and lead which you spend on a tortured 
creature; and if there is justice, and we 
meet again up yonder, Minka, too, will not 
be wanting, and then you shall see that, 
after the ass that bore our Lord into Jeru- 
salem, there will be none more beautiful 
than Minka in all Paradise.’ 

“ How could I withstand such a touch- 


154 MINKA. 


ing request? I cocked my gun, came close 
to the good creature, and shot a bullet 
through its head. It fell headlong into the 
water; the gray head appeared for an in- 
stant, then sank and left no trace. 

“The old woman fell upon her knees; I 
saw her fold her withered hands and move 
her lips silently. Undoubtedly, she breath- 
ed a prayer for Minka’s departed soul. 

“ Then she arose wearily. ‘I thank you, 
sir, she said. ‘You have just done me a 
greater kindness than when you sent me 
thé money. When you go home give my 
respects to the lady baroness. Tell her I 
need nothing more. Three are already at 
rest, and the fourth will not delay long. 
And so may God preserve you. I am 
freezing. I shall go back to the house and 
warm myself a little. The night will be 
cold and the house is empty. May God re- 
ward you a thousandfold, sir! No; you 
shall not go with me! I have no one, and 
the cursed music will let me sleep very 
well if I stop my ears tightly enough. 
Good-night, sir! Rest well. And the 
Lord God above will understand and deal 
kindly with us. Amen!’ 

“She crossed herself and bowed quietly. 


MINKA. 155 


Then she climbed the slope across the mead- 
ow, and I watched her until she reached her 
hut above and closed the door behind her. 

“T myself returned to the path in a state 
of mind that baffles description. The uni- - 
versal misery of mankind was about the drift 
of it. But other elements mingling with 
it gave the peculiar experience something 
at once grotesque and awful. A _ profes- 
sional psychologist would have had difficulty 
in understanding it. 

“ Fortunately the weather took care that I 
did not lose myself in this bottomless pit of 
fruitless speculation. Just as I reached the 
first houses, the rain began to fall in such 
torrents that I was obliged to seek shelter 
and wait until the storm should abate be- 
fore attempting to return to the estate. 
Naturally, I hastened to the inn. I hada 
certain curiosity to see the famous judge’s 
son on this day, when his old sweetheart 
had quietly taken herself out of the world 
to make room for his new one. 

“Tt was a middle-class wedding of the 
usual sort. I looked through the open 
door into the hall, where the table had been 
removed to make room for the dancers. 
The wedding pair immediately struck my 


156 MINKA. 


eyes, not unfavorably either ; he was pre- 
cisely such a man as I imagined, curly- 
headed, therefore popular among women, 
and with a frivolous, insolent face ; on the 
whole, a good-looking rascal of the most 
common type. The young wife in her 
myrtle wreath, a provincial beauty, ap- 
peared much in love with her husband, but, 
from continual ‘dancing with him, was too 
red and overheated to belovely. Since she 
was rich, the husband had in fact obtained 
a better lot than his villainous deed war- 
ranted, and it was hardly to be expected 
that compensating justice would make him 
do penance for his sins through this mar- 
riage. He did not seem to be a man who 
would endure such penance calmly, much 
less pass even one sleepless night in useless 
thoughts upon the moral system of the 
world. 

“The wretch disgusted me. Joining the 
peasants in the bar-room below, I drank my 
glass of beer in a very bitter mood, while 
the floor above creaked and trembled under 
the stamping and springing of the dancers, 
and the rain beat against the windows. 
This continued for more than an hour; 
then the rain ceased, the clouds moved tow- 


MINKA. 157 


ards the mountains, and the moon appeared. 
I decided to look about for a team, since 
the roads were now unfit for walking, and 
the wedding uproar made the prospect of a 
night here intolerable. 

“ Fortunately, just as 1 was going out to 
inquire for a teamster, I found my brother- 
in-law’s coachman before the door with the 
hunting-wagon, my sister having sent him 
to bring me home. Both he and his horses 
needed a rest and athorough drying. The 
homeward journey was so slow that I found 
everyone at the house asleep, and could not 
tell my horrible experience of the previous 
day till the following morning as we three 
sat at breakfast. 

“We were still under the influence of 
the strange tragedy—my sister, who had 
visited the ‘four females’ once during the 
summer, being affected even to tears—when 
the door opened, and my brother-in-law’s 
steward entered. ‘I merely wish to an- 
nounce, Herr Baron,’ he said, ‘ that there 
has been a fire during the night. God be 
_ thanked, it has not spread, and was not on 
our estate. But Mother Betsey’s house is 
burned.’ 

“We looked at one another confounded. 


158 MINKA. 


“<¢How did the fire start, and was any 
one injured ?’ asked my brother-in-law. 

“ The man shook his head. 

“¢They know nothing positively, Herr 
Baron, he said. ‘ At midnight, as the last 
dance was being played down in the inn— 
the judge’s son was holding his wedding 
feast—they suddenly heard the fire-bells 
ring from the towers, and, rushing out, they 
saw Mother Lamitz’s old hut up on the 
forest edge in bright flames. The fire 
streamed as quietly into the sky as if from 
a wood-pile, and although half the village 
was on foot, and the fire engine was dragged 
up the mountain, they could do nothing 
whatever, the flames having already de- 
voured the last corner of the old rookery. 
It was only when there was nothing left to 
save that they mastered the fire ; the ground 
walls, about a man’s height, alone remain 
standing, if they too have not fallen by this 
time. At first there seemed to be nothing 
left of the women and the child. At 
length some one discovered in the corner 
where the loom had stood a ghastly heap 
of ashes and blackened bones, undoubtedly 
the remains of old Betsey, who, as old 
women can never be warm enough, prob- 


MINKA. 159 


ably heated the oven so hot that the rotten 
thing burst and the flames reached the raf- 
ters of the loom. She must have been 
quickly suffocated by the smoke and have 
died without further pain. But what be- 
came of her daughter and the little one no- 
body knows, and as for the donkey, which 
she esteemed so highly, not the smallest 
piece of its hide or bones can be discoy- 
ered |? ” 








ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER 


Mes 


= 
Mas SP 
bs 





ROTHENBURG ON THE 
TAUBER. 


Ir was Easter Tuesday. The people who 
had celebrated this feast of resurrection by 
an open-air excursion in the gayly blossom- 
ing springtime were thronging back to 
their houses and the work-day troubles of 
the morrow. All the highroads swarmed 
with carriages and pedestrians, and the 
railroads were overcrowded in spite of the 
extra trains; for it was many years since 
there had been such continuously lovely 
Easter weather. 

The evening express, standing in the 
Ansbach station ready to depart in the di- 
rection of Wiirzburg, was. twice as long as 
usual. Nevertheless, every seat appeared to 
be occupied, when a straggler of the sec- 
ond class, trying to enter at the last mo- 
ment, knocked in*vain at every door, and 
peered into each coupé, meeting every- 


164 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAVBER. 


where a more or less ungracious or mis- 
chievous shrug of the shoulders. Finally, 
the guard at his side made a sudden de- 
cision, opened a coupé of the first class, 
shoved the late-comer into the dim interior, 
and slammed the door just as the train be- 
gan to move. 

A woman who, curled up like a black 
lizard, had been slumbering in the opposite 
corner suddenly started up and cast an 
angry look at the unwelcome disturber of 
her solitude. 

However, the blonde young man in plain 
Sunday clothing, with a portfolio under 
his arm and a worn-out travelling satchel 
with old-fashioned embroidery in his hand, 
seemed to strike her as nothing remarkable. 
She replied to his courteous greeting and 
awkward excuse with a haughty, scarcely 
perceptible inclination of her head; drew 
her wrap’s black silk hood once more over 
her forehead, and prepared to continue 
her interrupted slumber as unconcernedly 
as if, instead of a new fellow-traveller, 
merely one more piece of luggage had been 
put in the compartment. 

The young man, feeling that he was re- 
garded as an intruder, took good care not 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 165 


to remind her of his presence by any un- 
necessary noise ; indeed, for the first five 
minutes, although he had been running 
violently, he held his breath as long as he 
could, and remained steadily in the uncom- 
fortable position which he had at first as- 
sumed. He merely took off his hat, and 
wiped the perspiration from his brow with 
a handkerchief, looking discreetly out of 
the window the while, as if he could only 
atone for his appearance in a higher sphere 
by the most modest behavior. But since 
the sleeper did not stir, and the passing 
landscape outside had no charm for him, he 
finally ventured to turn his eyes toward the 
interior of the coupé; and, after having 
sufficiently admired the broad, red plush 
cushions and the mirror on the wall, he 
even dared to look more closely at the 
stranger, slowly and cautiously surveying 
her from the tip of the tiny shoe peeping 
from beneath her gown, to her shoulders, 
and at length to the fine lines of the face 
turned towards him. 

Undoubtedly a very high-born dame— 
that was instantly clear to him—and, fur- 
thermore, a Russian, Pole, or Spaniard. 
Everything she had on and about her bore 


166 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


the stamp of an aristocratic origin ;—her 
gown ; the fine red travelling satchel against 
which she placed her tiny feet so regard- 
lessly ; the elegant tan gloves whereon she 
was resting her cheek. Moreover, a pecul- 
iar fragrance, not of any aromatic essence, 
but of Russia leather and cigarettes, sur- 
rounded her, and on the carpet of the 
coupé there actually lay several white half- 
smoked stumps, scattered about with their 
ashes and some Russian tobacco. A book 
had also fallen on the floor. Unable to con- 
tent himself with letting it lie there, he 
picked it up carefully and saw that it was 
a French novel. All this filled him with that 
secretly pleasing horror apt to seize young 
men who have been brought up in pro- 
vincial circles, when they are unexpectedly 
brought into contact with a woman of the 
fashionable world. To the natural power of 
woman over man is then added the romantic 
charm which the unknown and independent 
customs, the imagined passionate joys and 
sorrows of the upper classes, exercise over 
a fledgeling of the lower. The gulf yawn- 
ing between the two classes merely increases 
this attraction ; for, the opportunity some- 
time offering, the man probably feels a 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 167 


visionary, foolhardly desire to show his 
strength and cross the seemingly impassable 
abyss. 

To be sure, the young traveller did not 
contemplate any such adventurous bold- 
ness. But when he was sufficiently con- 
vineed that the sleep of his strange neigh- 
bor was unfeigned, he quietly drew from 
his vest pocket a small book bound in gray 
linen, and furtively began to sketch the 
sleeper’s fine and pale, though somewhat 
haughty, profile. 

It was no light undertaking, although the 
rapid motion of the express helped him over 
several difficulties. He was obliged to keep 
himself half-poised on the seat and make 
each stroke with unerring certainty. But 
the head was well worth the trouble; and 
as, peering through the dim light, he 
studied the quiet face lightly framed by 
the folds of the hood, he said to himself 
that he had never seen such classic features 
on any living being. She seemed some- 
what past her first youth, and the mouth 
with its delicate lips occasionally assumed, 
even in sleep, a peculiar expression of bit- 
terness or disgust ; but the brow, the shape 
of the eyes, and the rich masses of soft, 


168 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


wavy hair were still remarkably beauti- 
ful. 

He had drawn zealously for about ten 
minutes and had almost finished the sketch, 
- when the sleeper roused herself calmly, and 
demanded in the best of German : 

“Do you know, sir, that it is not allow- 
able to rob travellers in their sleep ?” 

The poor offender, greatly confused, let 
the book sink upon his knee, and said, 
blushing furiously: ‘“ Pardon me, my lady, 
I did not think—I believed—it is merely 
a very hasty sketch—merely for remem- 
brance.” 

“ Who gave you the right to remember 
me, and to assist your memory so obvious- 
ly?’ replied the woman, measuring him 
somewhat coldly and scornfully with her 
keen blue eyes. 

She gradually raised herself to an up- 
right position; and as the hood fell upon 
her shoulders, he saw the fine contour of 
her head, and in spite of hisembarrassment, 
continued to study her with an artist’s 
eye. 

“Tn truth, I must confess that I have 
behaved like a veritable highwayman,” he 
replied, trying to turn the matter into a 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 169 


jest ; “ but perhaps you will allow mercy to 
precede justice, when I return my booty, 
not with intent to propitiate justice, but to 
show you how little it is that I have appro- 
priated.” 

He offered her the open sketch-book. 
She cast a hasty glance at her picture ; then 
nodded kindly, though with a quick ges- 
ture of rejection. 

“Tt is like,” she said, “ but idealized. 
You are a portrait painter, sir?’ 

“ No, my lady ; in that case I could have 
made the sketch really characteristic. I 
paint architectural pictures mainly. But 
just because my eyes are sharpened for 
beautiful proportions and graceful lines, 
and as they are not found in a human face 
every day—” 

At a loss for a conclusion, he stared at 
the tip of his boot, attempted to smile, and 
blushed again. 

Withont noticing this, the stranger said, 
“ Doubtless you have some of your sketches 
and paintings in that portfolio there. May 
I see them ?” 

“Certainly.” He handed her the port- 
folio, and spread the contents sheet by sheet 
before her. They were mere aquarelles, 


170 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


representing in a versatile manner and with 
thoroughly artistic conception old build- 
ings, Gothic turrets, and streets of gabled 
houses. The stranger allowed one after 
the other to pass, without addressing any 
questions to the artist. But she studied 
many pages for a long time, and returned 
them with a certain hesitation. 

“The things are not perfectly finished 
yet,” said he, excusing this and that hasty 
study, “but they all belong to the same 
eycle. I availed myself of Easter day to 
talk them over with an art-dealer in Nurem- 
berg. I wish to publish all these sketches 
in chromo-lithographie work. To be sure, 
I have many predecessors, but Rothenburg 
is not even yet as well known as it deserves 
to be.” 

“ Rothenburg ?” 

“Certainly. These are all views from 
Rothenburg. I thought you knew it, my 
lady, as you did not ask.” 

“Rothenburg? Where is it ?” 

“Oh, on the Tauber, not many hours’ 
journey from here. But really, do you not 
know it? Have you never even heard the 
name ?” 

“You must pardon my ignorance,” she 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 1%1 


replied, with a slight smile, “as I am nota 
German. But I have been with Germans 
very often, and confess to you, I never 
heard the name of Rothenburg on the—how 
was it ?—on the Tauber 4/—until now.” 

He laughed, losing his timidity -at once 
as he realized his advantage over this ele- 
gant woman on such an important point. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, “ for having be- 
haved to you as all Rothenburgers do to 
strangers, even though my cradle did not 
stand on the banks of the Tauber. We are 
all so infatuated with our city, that we can 
scarcely imagine how our feeling appears 
to people who know nothing of Rothen- 
burg. When I went there for the first 
time nine years ago, I myself knew little 
more of the old ‘imperial’ town than that 
it stood, like Jerusalem, upon a high pla- 
teau rising from the river valley ; was even 
yet fortified with walls and towers as for 
the last half-thousand years; and had the 
honor, once upon a time, to count the 
founder of my race among its citizens. 
Permit me to introduce myself to you: 
my name is Hans Doppler.” 

He bowed smilingly, looking at her as if 
he expected that this name would arouse 


172 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


in her a joyful excitement, somewhat as if 
he had confided that his name was Hans 
Columbus or Gutenberg. But her ex- 
pression did not change in the least. 

“ Doppler,” he continued, somewhat 
hesitatingly, “is merely the new version of 
the name Toppler, and was introduced dur- 
ing the last century in the collateral line to 
which I belong. Yet it is authentically 
certain that the founder of our family was 
no less a person than the great burgomas- 
ter of Rothenburg, Heinrich Toppler, of 
whom you have undoubtedly heard.” 

She shook her head, evidently amused 
by his naive confidence. 

“T regret that my historical knowledge 
is just as defective as my geographical. 
But what did your ancestor do, that it is a 
disgrace not to know of him ?’ 

“Do not fear, my lady,” said he, now 
laughing at his own pretensions, “that 
from mere family pride I would bore you 
with a piece of Rothenburg history. That 
pride has good reason to be humbled ; for 
I myself, as you see me, have nothing at 
all to govern in my ancestral home; but, 
for that very reason, I need not expect to 
be imprisoned and delivered up to death 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 173 


from hunger or poison by my fellow- 
citizens, as my ancestor was, after he had 
increased the good old town’s military re- 
nown. A horrible end, was it not, my 
lady? A fine return for so many brave 
deeds! And all because of a mere slander. 
He was said to have lost the town to a cer- 
tain prince ina game of dice; but not a 
word of it was true. In the ancient lan- 
guage, Doppler, to be sure, meant dice, and 
in our family arms—” 

He stopped suddenly, for it seemed to 
him that the lady’s delicate nostrils were 
trembling in the effort to conceal a yawn. 
Somewhat mortified, he turned his atten- 
tion to his aquarelles, and arranged them in 
the portfolio which he was still holding in 
his hand. 

“And how did it happen,” she then 
asked, “that you inherited this unjustly 
murdered man’s estate? Did they wish to 
repay to you the wrong they did your an- 
cestor ?” 

“You err, my lady,” he said, “if you 
believe that Rothenburg would feel any 
honor about having a Doppler once more 
among them, or would allow this honor to 
cost them anything. When I, as I told 


174 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


you, merely curious to see the old fortress, 
strolled through the ancient gateway nine 
years ago, not a person there knew me, and 
even when I mentioned my name, they 
made little fuss about it. Indeed, as I was 
born in Nuremberg, and no longer have the 
T in my name, they greatly doubted that I 
really belonged to them. But, as the 
poet says, the history of the world is the 
final judgment; and what the magistrate 
of Rothenburg neglected to do—that is, to 
meet me ceremoniously, surrender to me 
for my sole possession the houses which the 
great burgomaster had owned, and support 
me for my lifetime as a living part of the 
city—fate, or providence, whichever you 
wish, did in another way. 

“T came to Rothenburg merely to make 
a few studies and to take a look at the old- 
fashioned nest, and I found there my life’s 
happiness and a warm, new nest of my own, 
to which I am now returning.” 

“ May I know how it happened ?” 

“Why not, if it interests you at all. 
My parents sent me to the academy at 
Munich. They were not rich, but yet 
their means were sufficient to educate me 
suitably and to allow me to go through all 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 175 


the classes. I wished to become a land- 
scape painter, and, after finishing school, 
to travel in Italy for several years. When 
I became twenty-one years of age I felt 
impelled, before undertaking the great art- 
journey, to visit my good mother at Nu- 
remberg—father had been dead for some 
time. ‘Hans,’ said she, ‘before you make 
your pilgrimage to Rome, you ought to 
take a trip to the place where the roots 
of our family tree stood before they were 
torn up and transplanted here from eastern 
Franconia.’ She was a worthy old patri- 
cian, my good mother, and laid great stress 
on grand genealogical expressions. Well, 
there was nothing to hinder; I took my 
pilgrim’s staff in hand and set out slowly 
toward the west, sketching industriously 
on the way ; for this German landscape of 
ours was already far dearer to me than the 
unknown scenes of the south. Now, since 
you have looked through the portfolio, you 
may perhaps comprehend that the German 
Jerusalem impressed me strongly, and that 
I did not have hands and eyes enough to 
note all the remarkable things. But there 
was something in Rothenburg which won 
my approval even more than its dear antiq- 


176 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


uity; mamely—I shall not treat you to 
any detailed love story—at one of the 
weekly balls given by the so-called ‘ Har- 
monic Society,’ I became acquainted with 
the young daughter of a fine old citizen 
who had formerly been an alderman. She 
was full three years younger than I, and—I 
may surely say so—the prettiest child in the 
whole town. After the second waltz I 
knew my own mind well enough, but, un- 
fortunately, neither hers nor her father’s. 
And so it might have been a very sorrow- 
ful story, and the descendant of the great 
Toppler might, like him, have pined away 
in chains in this old ‘imperial’ town, if 
the before-mentioned fate had not interfer- 
ed, and allowed me to cast a lucky throw 
with my family dice. In three days I 
was satisfied that the maiden liked me; 
and in three weeks, that the father would 
overlook my extreme youth and former 
misdoings, for he too—God knows why— 
had taken a foolish liking to me. It was 
especially pleasing to his Rothenburg heart 
that my name was Doppler, and that I 
knew how to paint the beautiful ruined 
walls, the wonderful turrets and strange 
fountains, of the old fortress, So, after a 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 177 


short year of probation, he gave me the 
hand of his only child, under the condition, 
to be sure, that I should leave her in her 
old home during his lifetime, and should 
devote my art principally to the glorifica- 
tion of his beloved town. You compre: 
hend, my lady, that I did not struggle 
much against this. My father-in-law was 
not only a reputable man, who owned house 
and gardens, vineyards and farm lands, 
but the best soul in the world as well, and 
never failed to see a joke except when 
some one praised other ancient towns unduly, 
or placed Nuremberg or Augsburg above 
the ‘ Pearl of the Valley.’ He lived with 
us for four years ; and whenever I sold any 
picture of Rothenburg at a foreign exhibi- 
tion, he always brought a flask of Tauber 
wine from the cellar and drank my health. 
When he finally died, I myself was alto- 
gether too much at home in the primitive, 
angular old house to think of moving. 
Then, too, there was no lack of commissions 
and work just commenced. But if the old 
man had lived to see my colored prints 
published, I believe he would have lest his 
reason for joy.” 

Becoming silent after this long narrative 


178 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


of his short life, he looked out of the win- 
dow into the ever-deepening darkness, and 
lost himself in quiet revery. It finally oc- 
eurred to him thatthe stranger had not said 
one syllable in reply ; and at the same time 
he felt her eyes steadily regarding him from 
her dusky corner. “I am afraid,” he said, 
“that after all, I have wearied you with 
these petty stories. But you yourself drew 
them from me, and if you knew—” 

“You are greatly in error,” she inter- 
rupted. “If I remain silent, it is merely 
because I am pondering a riddle.” 

“ A riddle? That I have given you ?” 

“Yes, you, Herr Hans Doppler. I am 
asking myself, how I can reconcile the artist 
whom I recognize from this portfolio, with 
the staid, home-loving man—you have chil- 
dren too ?” 

“ Four, my lady—two boys and two littie 
girls.” 

Well then—with the young husband and 
father who has settled down in his monoto- 
nous, commonplace happiness as in a snail- 
shell, and at most takes an occasional journey 
to Nuremberg—your drawings show un- 
usual talent, for that you can take my word. 
I have seen the work of Hilderbrandt and 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 179 


Werner, and the whole Roman aquarelle 
club, and assure you yours would make a 
sensation among them. So much freedom 
and spirited ease, with such grace in the 
landscapes and staffage ! And then to think 
that this unusual talent is doomed for the 
next thirty or forty years to no other ex- 
pression than an endless variation of the 
towers, balconies, vaulted doors, and gabled 
roofs of a medieval nest which appears in 
our world like an excavated German Pom- 
peii— But pardon me this criticism of your 
plan of life. Iam not fitted to criticise it. 
However, as you wish to know the subject 
of my meditation, it was this problem: can 
a noble, liberal, artistic soul be so completely 
filled by commonplace family happiness ? 
It must certainly be possible. Only to me, 
as I am accustomed to absolute freedom of 
existence, to boundless liberty, it is incom- 
prehensible that you, scarcely thirty years 
old—” 

“You are right,” he interrupted, his frank, 
youthful face suddenly clouding. “ You 
have expressed something which I often 
said to myself at first, but always thrust 
back again into a secret corner of my heart. 
Do you really find that my drawings show 


180 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


power for something greater and better ? 
At the best I would fall far short of a great 
artist! Meanwhile, you know Schiller’s _ 
poem, ‘Pegasus in Harness.’ A horse that 
suffers itself to be harnessed to the plough, 
even though it may be of good blood, proves 
that it has no wings. But perhaps it might 
have served for something better than 
ploughing. And yet, if you knew—if 
only you knew my Christel and the chil- 
dren !” 

“JT do not for an instant doubt that you 
have a charming wife and lovely children, 
Herr Hans Doppler ; and nothing is farther 
from my thoughts than to render you sus- 
picious of your domestic happiness. But 
that you, being so young, can regard it as 
final, as something never to be interrupted, 
never to be laid aside even temporarily for 
the sake of a higher aim—and you were even 
on the way to the beloved land of art, and 
had certainly heard and seen enough of it 
at the academy to have some presentiment 
of the joys awaiting you there—and never- 
theless—” 

“ Oh, my lady!” he eried, suddenly start- 
ing up as if the narrow coupé had become 
too close and prison-like for him, “ you are 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 181 


repeating my own thoughts! How often 
in the night, especially in clear spring 
nights, when I have awakened and heard 
my dear wife’s quiet breathing near me; 
while the children were lying asleep in the 
neighboring room, and the moonlight was 
moving so weirdly and quietly over the low 
walls ; and the ancient clock, which the old 
man wound so regularly, and which dates 
from the Thirty Years’ War, was ticking 
drowsily to and fro—how often I have been 
forced to spring out of bed and look down 
into the valley through the little window 
with the round pane! And when I have 
seen the Tauber flowing along in its narrow 
bed as hastily as if it could not escape too 
soon from its restraining banks and throw 
itself into the Main, and with it into the 
Rhine, and thence into the ocean—how much 
I have suffered, as I ground my teeth to- 
gether and slunk back to bed tired and sad- 
dened, I have never told a human soul. It 
seemed the blackest ingratitude against the 
kind fate which had dealt with me so gently. 
But the day after I could never touch a 
brush ; and if I saw in a paper the word 
Rome or Naples, the blood rushed to my 
head as though I were some deserter caught 


182 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


on the road, and dragged handeuffed back 
to his barracks.” 

He thrust his hand through his curly hair, 
and fell back in his seat. She had regarded 
him during his excited speech with a keen, 
fixed look, and, for the first time, his face 
interested her. The innocent, youthful ex- 
pression had disappeared ; his clear, beauti- 
fully formed eyes blazed; and his slender 
figure, in spite of the common black coat, 
gained something animated, almost heroic, 
as well beseemed the descendant of the 
“great burgomaster.” 

“T understand your mood,” said the stran- 
ger, composedly taking a cigarette from a 
small silver box and lighting it with a 
waxen taper, “ but just so much the less do 
I comprehend your action. To be sure, I 
myself have always been accustomed to do 
only what satisfies my nature’s deepest 
needs. I acknowledge no chains. Either 
they are too weak, and I break them; or 
they are too strong, and strangle me. To 
remain in them alive is for me an impossi- 
bility. Do you smoke? Do not be embar- 
rassed. You see, I set the example.” 

He shook his head, thanked her, and be- 
came all attention. 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUVBER. 183 


“ As I said,” continued the lady, blowing 
the smoke slowly before her with her beau- 
tiful, expressive lips, “I have no right to 
criticise your plan of life. But you must 
allow me to wonder how a man can com- 
plain of a difficulty rather than help him- 
self out of it, especially where it would be 
so easy. Do you fear that your wife would 
be untrue to you if you should take an art 
journey ?” 

“ Christel? Untrue to me?” In spite of | 
his gloominess he laughed aloud. 

“ Pardon !” she said calmly ; “I forgot 
that she is a German, and, moreover, a Ro- 
thenburg woman. But just so much less 
do I comprehend why you condemn your- 
self to a lifetime of such work ; represent- 
ing only the church and klimperthor, or, as 
it is called—” 

“ Klingerthor, my lady.” 

“ Well, then, all this trashy masonry and 
commonplace Gothic rubbish, as if there 
were no Colosseum, no baths of Caracalla, 
no theatre at Taormina! And what vege- 
tation, what luxuriant growths there are 
among the ruins of those old temples ; what 
pines and cypresses, what distant glimpses 
of ocean and mountains! Believe me, I 


184. ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


myself, although I am not yet an old wom- 
an, would have been dead and buried long 
ago if I had not escaped from narrow, mad- 
deningly lifeless surroundings, and found 
salvation in that land of beauty and free- 
dom.” 

“ Madame is not married ?” 

She threw the glowing cigarette stump 
out of the window, pressed her regular, lit- 
tle white teeth together an instant, and then 
said, in an indescribably indifferent voice— 

“My husband, the General, was govern- 
or of a moderately large fortress in the in- 
terior of Russia, and naturally could not ac- 
company me. Then, too, at his age, it 
would have been hard for him to forego his 
home comforts. So we decided to arrange 
a rendezvous somewhere on the frontier for 
every two years, and since then each has 
lived much more contentedly. 

“T well know,” she continued, as he 
looked at her with some disapproval, “ that 
this conception of married happiness is re- 
volting to sentimental German prejudices. 
But, believe me, in many respects, we bar- 
barians are in advance of your highly refined 
civilization ; and we make up for our lack 
of political liberty by our greater social 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 185 


freedom. If you were a Russian, you 
would have emancipated yourself long ago, 
and followed the lead of your Tauber, 
though in the opposite direction. And 
what would you have lost by it? When 
you returned in a year or two as a well-de- 
veloped artist, would you not find your 
house on the same spot, your wife as domes- 
tic and youthful as ever, your children, per- 
haps half a head taller, but as clean and 
pretty as you left them ?” 

“You are right! It is only too true,” 
he stammered, pushing his hands nervously 
through his hair. “ Oh, if I had but seen it 
so clearly before !” 

“ Before? A young man like you, not 
yet beyond thirty! But I see it now; you 
are too fond of the flesh-pots of Rothen- 
burg. You are right; remain at home and 
earn an honest living. The proposition 
which I was just about to make would ap- 
pear to you less rational than if I com- 
manded you to travel in a desert and hunt 
tigers and crocodiles, instead of landscape 
motives.” 

She flung the sharp-pointed dart at him 
with so much quiet grace that he felt at 
once charmed and wounded. 


186 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


“ No, my lady,” he cried, “ you must tell 
me the proposition you had in mind. Al- 
though it is only a short time since I had 
the good fortune to make your acquaintance, 
I can nevertheless assure you that your ap- 
pearance, each of your words, has made a 
deep and lasting impression on me. It is, 
to be plain, as if a complete change were 
going on in me, and these hours with 
you—” 

He reddened and became silent. She no- 
ticed it, and came to his aid, although she 
was apparently looking beyond him. 

“‘ My proposition,” she said, “ will not by 
any means suffice to make an entirely dif- 
ferent man of you, but only to release the 
true one from his narrow shell. I am now 
going to Wiirzburg to visit a sick friend. 
After staying with her for two days, I shall 
return on this same road, making no _ halt 
before Genoa, where I shall take passage on 
a steamer bound for Palermo; for as yet I 
have not seen Sicily. 

“ Now, what Goethe has written in his 
‘ Italian Journey’ about his companion, the 
artist Kniep, whom he engaged to sketch 
any wayside scene which pleased his fancy, 
has always filled me with envy. I am no 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 187 


great poet, and no rich princess. Yet I am 
not so poor but that I too may grant my- 
self such a travelling companion. Of course 
we now have photography. But to you at 
least I need not explain how much better 
it is to have an artistic hand at disposal 
than any photographic apparatus whatever. 
I also thought it would be well for you to 
be introduced into this paradise by some one 
who understands the language perfectly and 
is no novice in the art of travelling. You 
would be entirely free to remain with me 
as long or short a time as you pleased. The 
first sentence of our compact should read: 
Freedom even to inconsiderateness. And if, 
on the return, you should wish to linger at 
Rome or Florence, the means for doing 
so—” 

“Oh, my lady,” he broke in, excitedly, 
“T would not think of trespassing on your 
kindness and generosity under any condi- 
tion. I can well afford to spend a year in 
the south, and if I perceive in your propos- 
al a sign from heaven, it is only because 
your suggestion, the prospect of seeing all 
these world wonders in your company, 
makes the determination so much easier. 
For that I shall be unceasingly grateful to 


188 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


you. It isindeed just as yousay ; my wife, 
my dear children—in fact, I shall offend 
them less than I now imagine. Christel is 
so intelligent, so self-reliant, she herself, 
when I explain it to her—or better, if you 
could say it to her as you have to me— 
truly, after Wirzburg you must—I cannot 
expect you to take a trip to Rothenburg— 
whoever has seen the Colosseum and the 
baths of Caracalla must regard our modest, 
commonplace, medieval—” 

The whistle of the locomotive interrupted 
him. The train was moving more slowly, 
and lights were beginning to glimmer by 
the roadside. 

“Steinach !” said the artist, rising and 
picking up his satchel and portfolio; “our 
ways part here. You go farther north; I 
shall take the little local train, and be home 
in half an hour. Oh, my lady, if you would 
set a day and hour, when you are on your 
return—” 

“Do you know,” she said suddenly, look- 
ing at her watch, “I have reflected that it 
would be more sensible for me tospend this 
night in Rothenburg, and continue my 
journey to-morrow morning. I would 
arrive in Wiirzburg too late to see my friend. 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 189 


Instead, since I am for once so near, I will 
make up the deficiencies of my historical 
and geographical education, and take a look 
at your Jerusalem on the Tauber. You 
will be so good, if your wife does not ob- 
ject, as to be my guide to-morrow for a 
while—” 

“Oh, my lady,” he cried in joyful ex- 
citement, “I would never have dared to ask 
so much! How happy you make me, and 
how shall I ever—” 

The train stopped and the door of the 
coupé was opened. Having reverentially 
assisted his newly won patroness to alight, 
Hans Doppler accompanied her toa carriage 
of the second class. There she spoke several 
Russian words to a small, odd-looking per- 
son in a plumed hat, who, laden as she was 
with numerous boxes, satchels, and baskets, 
worked her way out of the overcrowded in- 
terior into the open air, and regarded her 
mistress’s blonde companion with a not alto- 
gether friendly glance of her small, Tartar 
eyes. The lady appeared to explain the 
altered condition of things to her maid, 
although that overburdened creature did 
not answer a word. Then, taking her 
young fellow-traveller’s arm, she strolled 


190 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


with him up and down the dark platform in 
lively conversation; talking of Italy, of 
Russia, of the German cities which she 
knew, so easily and cleverly, and with such 
an agreeable spice of wickedness, that her 
companion felt he had never before been so 
well entertained, and could never weary of 
listening to this irresistible Scheherezade. 

In truth, was it not like a fairy tale, that 
he should be walking beside this beautiful 
woman, whom he had seen for the first time 
an hour before; that she should have de- 
cided to follow him to his little nest, far out 
of the usual route; and that such a fasci- 
nating future should be in store for him ? 

They knew him very well at the little 
station, but when they saw him appear in 
such elegant company, they doffed their 
hats more respectfully than ever before. 

In the light of the swinging lanterns, her 
pale face seemed even more unreal and 
princess-like. She wore a peculiarly shaped 
cap of black velvet bordered with reddish 
fur, and a short hooded wrap with the same 
trimming. She had drawn off her gloves ; 
and her young escort glanced down furtive- 
ly from time to time upon the large sap- 
phire gleaming on her little finger. He had 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 191 


searcely ever seen such a slender, lily-white 
hand, every part of which seemed so ex- 
pressive and elegant. 

But when they boarded the little local 
train, which had only two small, second- 
class compartments besides the two-and-a- 
half horse-power engine, he became some- 
what uncomfortable. All three seated them- 
selves in one second-class carriage, since 
there was none of the first; and the train 
began to move slowly on through the softly 
enveloping moonlight. The maid betook 
herself to the darkest corner, and crouched 
there beneath her mountain of bundles. 
The full light from the lamp on the ceiling 
fell upon her mistress’s face, and the young 
artist opposite became more and more 
devoutly absorbed in contemplating the 
nobly formed features, which corresponded 
so perfectly to the ideal of beauty that he 
had vaguely conceived in the model classes 
at the academy. But as the train approached 
the journey’s end, he became disheartened 
and depressed by the thought that the rustic 
nooks of, his old Rothenburg would appear 
very uninteresting to these wonderful eyes 
which had seen half the world. 

Everything that he had known and ad- 


192 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


mired for so long seemed suddenly mean 
and despicable ; and he thought with dismay 
how disdainful her delicate face would look 
on the morrow, when she saw all that fa- 
mous magnificence on which he had laid so 
much stress. His overawed fancy flew even 
into his own home, and, unfortunately, 
things did not seem much better there. 
How would his little unsophisticated wife 
compare with this world traveller; and his 
boys, usually running about with dishevel- 
led heads; and his baby girls, as yet with 
so little knowledge of behavior ? 

He regretted intensely having meddled 
with this pleasant adventure, and the story- 
like atmosphere suddenly vanished. 

Fortunately, he did not need to act just 
then. The stranger’s eyes were closed, and 
she seemed to sleep in good earnest. The 
narrow-eyed Tartar, to be sure, was watch- 
ing him steadily from her ambush, but she © 
did not speak. 

At last the train stopped; the sleeper 
awoke, seemed to find trouble in determin- 
ing where she was, and then asked if there 
were any endurable hotels in Rothenburg. 
Her companion, whose patriotic pride was 
aroused by her contemptuous tone, recom- 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 193 


mended, with admirable reserve, the 
“ Golden Stag,” whose omnibus was wait- 
ing at the station. Was not his wife there 
to receive him? He had forbidden it, as 
the hour was so late—ten o’clock—and she 
did not like to leave the children alone 
with the maid. The next day he hoped to 
have the pleasure of presenting his family 
to her. 

To this the Russian—no longer in her 
former friendly mood, and seeming, like 
him, secretly to regret her over-hasty de- 
cision—made no reply. 

All three, without exchanging another 
word, climbed into the close hotel omnibus; 
and, driving through the sombre gateway, 
jolted over the uneven pavement into the 
sleeping city. 

They reached the market-place just as 
the moon was emerging from a mist of 
clouds, and the stranger, looking out of the 
carriage window, expressed herself as well 
pleased with the majestic town-hall, now 
showing to the bestadvantage in the silvery 
moonlight. This revived her companion’s 
sinking spirits, and he began to speak of 
the building, Rothenburg’s especial pride, 
and its foundation after a great fire. Tt 


194. ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


was an edifice of the best Renaissance style, 
and in summer-time, when the extensive 
space along the front was decorated with 
flowers, one could hardly imagine anything 
more majestic and delightful. 

He was still talking when they stopped 
before the open door of the “Golden 
Stag.” Hans Doppler sprang out first ; 
then after having assisted the stranger to 
alight, he bade the host good-evening, and 
whispered to him to prepare his best cham- 
ber. 

“ Numbers 15 and 16 are empty,” re- 
plied the host, bowing with great polite- 
ness. 

“You will have a beautiful outlook into 
the Tauber valley, my lady,” said the artist. 
“When the moon is higher, you will be 
delighted with the double bridge below 
and the little Gothic church. Early to- 
morrow morning I shall presume to in- 
quire how you have slept, and when you 
wish to make your trip through the town.” 

She noticed that he was a trifie cool and 
ill-humored. Immediately she gave him 
her hand, pressed his as he respectfully 
kissed her slender fingers, and said: “ Un- 
til to-morrow, dear friend! Do not come 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 195 


too early.. I am a night-bird, and your 
Rothenburg moonlight in addition to the 
Tauber-nixy will not allow me to rest just 
yet, I am sure.” 

With this she followed the landlord into 
the house ; and the maid, relieved of some 
of her burdens by a servant, hurried after 
her. 


Hans Doppler set out on his way home 
with much less eagerness than was usual 
with him when returning from.some short 
trip; indeed, he was like an extremely 
tired, thoughtful man who is uncertain of 
the wolbsnnis he may receive. His house, 
built close to the town-wall near the Burg- 
thor, faced the northwest; while the win- 
dows of the inn which he was leaving 
looked towards the southwest. He racked 
his brains on the way in the effort to decide 
which would be better: to make a full con- 
fession that evening, or postpone it till the 
morrow. As soon as he had escaped from 
the dangerous stranger’s influence, the 
whole matter seemed to him extremely un- 
pleasant, if not fairly dishonest and wrong. 
Yet he had already gone too far to extri- 
cate himself without dishonor. The next 


196 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


day must be lived through; after that he © 
would feign some pressing obligation, 
which, by forcing him to remain at home, 
would prevent him from accompanying 
her just then. 

Having thus satisfied his conscience with 
regard to his unsuspecting young wife, he 
became more at ease. Yet it was with 
ever-decreasing haste that he ascendcd the 
steep street above the. market-place, till he 
reached the tower of the Burgthor. As he 
turned into the narrow alley leading to his 
house, he saw in the distance a dark figure 
standing beneath the round arch of the 
garden wall; and he scarcely had time to 
recognize his little wife before a pair of 
soft firm arms were thrown around his 
neck and a warm mouth sought his in the 
darkness. 

As he was carrying a satchel and _port- 
folio, he could neither return the embrace 
nor prevent it, as he was inclined to do ; for 
he noticed that some of the neighboring 
windows were open, and feared that the 
tender welcome might be observed. 

She saw his embarrassment, however, 
and calmed him by saying that they were 
only some old people, who knew long ago 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 197 


that she was still sentimental after seven 
years of marriage. Then, chatting softly 
and pleasantly of many small occurrences, 
she led him into the house, where every one 
was already asleep. It was an ancient ark, 
whose walls had outlasted many severe 
storms and severer wars. Its age was even 
more evident within, where all the wood- 
work was black and cracked, the stairs 
were steep and crooked, and the walls were 
parted at the seams, in spite of numerous 
props. But in order to remedy all these 
evils, it would have been necessary to de- 
molish the old structure and build it afresh, 
and this the former owner could as little 
persuade himself to do as his daughter and 
her young husband, in whose veins the 
blood of the “great burgomaster” still 
flowed. 

As Hans Doppler ascended the narrow, 
crooked stairs of this historic house, he 
for the first time found fault with it, al- 
though he was discreetly silent. As he 
entered the sitting-room, the low, raftered 
ceiling, the extremely old-fashioned furni- 
ture, and the family portraits on the walls 
struck him as shabby and ordinary ; though 
the little brass lamp with its green orna- 


198 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


ments looked very cheerful on the covered 
table, and lighted up the bright plates and 
dishes set out for his modest evening meal. 
At such home-comings he was usually 
bubbling over with merry speeches; to- 
night he was perfectly quiet, and, to con- 
ceal it, forced a continual smile, and stroked 
his pretty wife’s cheeks in a fatherly man- 
ner which caused her much secret won- 
der. 

But in the chamber where the children 
were sleeping the seal seemed to break from 
his heart and lips; especially when the 
younger boy, the favorite because of his 
close resemblance to his mother, awoke and 
threw his arms about his father’s neck with 
a ery of joy. 

Hans immediately gave him a toy which 
he had bought in Nuremberg and a large 
piece of gingerbread, both merely for a 
hasty look, as the lamp was soon removed 
again. Then, sitting on the old sofa, whose 
hair-cloth covering had never before seemed 
so cold and hard to him, he ate his supper, 
drank some of the red Tauber wine from 
his own vineyard, and told the fortunate re- 
sult of his business trip to his young wife. 
Christel sat opposite, eating nothing, but 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 199 


resting her elbows on the table. And then 
he had chanced to journey from Ansbach 
with a Russian lady, the wife of an old gen- 
eral, and she had wished to see Rothen- 
burg, and was stopping at the “Stag.” Un- 
fortunately, he could not avoid escorting 
her around somewhat the next day ; indeed, 
he was considering if it would not be 
necessary to invite her to dinner. 

“You know, Hans,” said the young wife, 
“that our Mary understands very little 
about cooking ; and I myself, unless I know 
beforehand, cannot do things by magic. 
But why do you wish to invite this utterly 
strange old lady ceremoniously to our house 
so soon? She has not called upon usas yet. 
Is it in some way important for you to en- 
tertain her especially? Is she an old ac- 
quaintance of your Munich days? Then, 
indeed, I must do my best.” 

“No,” he said, bending his head rather 
low over his plate; “ she is neither a former 
acquaintance, nor is she particularly old. 
And you are right, child; we must let her 
come tous. She will certainly come, for I 
have told her so much about you and the 
children. You will see—an interesting 
woman—very artistic. Her goodwill may 


900 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


be very useful to me some time, for she 
knows half the world.” 

/ “Well, I am eager to see her,” replied 
the young wife. “For the rest, that even 
Russians should become interested in Ro- 
thenburg—” ; 

He reddened, knowing best what had 
caused the suddenly awakened interest in 
Rothenburg. “Child,” he said, “go to bed 
now. Your bedtime hour struck long ago. 
I am still somewhat excited by my journey, 
but I shall soon follow you.” 

“ You are right,” she said, yawning heart- 
ily, thereby showing her large, but pretty, 
red mouth, with its shining teeth; “I no- 
ticed at once that you were not feeling like 
yourself; your eyes wander restlessly. 
Open the window and sit awhile in the 
cool air. Good-night.” 

She kissed him hastily and went into the 
neighboring bedroom, leaving the door 
open. Then he arose, pushed back the 
shutters, and opened the window with the 
small round pane. The night wind had 
scattered the mists from the moon; the 
winding valley, with its blossoming trees and 
freshly ploughed fields, lay beneath him in 
silvery dimness ; and in the deep hush he 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 201 


could hear the whispering of the Tauber’s 
waves as they rushed past the little, white 
water-tower which his forefather had built. 
He became very contented and peaceful ; 
this time his thoughts did not follow the 
course of the little stream to the limitless 
ocean, although the conditions were as often 
before ; he could hear at his right the quiet 
breathing of his children, on his left the 
gentle tread of his little wife, who before 
retiring had still this and that task to do. 
He felt as if he had merely dreamed the 
Russian fairy tale ; at least, it would not dis- 
turb his sleep that night. 


When Hans Doppler awoke in the early 
morning and found that his little wife, who 
had been busy in the children’s room for 
some time, was no longer near him, his first 
thought was of all that lay in store for him 
with his elegant patroness. In sober morn- 
ing light, his dwelling, his historical furni- 
ture, his dear wife and rosy-cheeked chil- 
dren seemed even less charming than on the 
previous evening. He found Christel’s neat 
house-dress much too provincial in cut, and 
noticed for the first time that Heinz’s 
trousers were patched with a piece of cloth 


902  ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


unlike the rest of the stuff in color and 
pattern. His own attire of yesterday dis- 
pleased him exceedingly. It was as respect- 
ably black as an office-seeker’s ; for it had 
seemed suitable to the young artist to con- 
duct his business with the Nuremberg gen- 
tlemen in clothing which should sufficiently 
prove his business solidity. Moreover, he 
always dressed like every one else in the 
town, since, being the only one of his class, 
he would have been conspicuous everywhere 
if arrayed as an artist. But he had no wish 
to reappear before that cosmopolitan woman 
in the garb of a young Philistine ; so from 
the deepest recesses of his clothes-chest he 
drew forth a velvet jacket, the same in 
which he had first come to Rothenburg, a 
broad-brimmed, black felt hat, and a pair of 
light trousers. Christel opened her eyes 
when he appeared thus attired. It was a 
shame for the good coat to hang in the 
closet for the moths, he declared. More- 
over, now, when his fellow-citizens would 
soon learn that they were destined to become 
famous far and wide through him, he was no 
longer going to appear ashamed of his art. 

To this the discreet little wife made no 
rejoinder, but regarded him with quietly 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 208 


critical eyes. She herself might well do a 
little extra to-day, he called back as he went 
out. It was uncertain when the general’s 
wife would call. She would be welcome 
at any time, replied Christel. Moreover, 
she was always in a condition to be seen, 
and the children too. Those who did not 
find them pretty enough in their every-day 
clothes had bad taste. In Russia, as she had 
read, they ran about perfectly ragged, and 
unwashed besides, like very beasts. 

With this she lifted little Lulu on her 
arm, stroked back her curly, blonde hair, 
and kissed her with quiet pride on the 
bright blue eyes which she inherited from 
her father. Christel’s eyes were brown. 

Hans Doppler, suppressing a slight sigh, 
exerted himself to smile back at his little 
family; then hurried on his way to the 
“ Golden Stag.” 

He knew it was still too early to call there, 
but he could not endure the narrow house 
and his secretly wicked thoughts. He had 
intended to stroll about a little before visit- 
ing the stranger, but as he came to the mar- 
ket-place and looked down the street tow- 
ards the inn, he saw the lady standing in the 
centre of the street below, opposite the lit- 


204. ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


tle Church of St. John, attentively studying 
through her lorgnette its Gothic windows 
and ancient carvings, among which a black 
Christophorus was especially prominent. 

He was dismayed at his tardiness. But 
as she saw him hastening towards her, she 
greeted him from the distance with a cheer- 
ful nod, and called: 

“You see, dear friend, the spirit of Ro- 
thenburg possesses me already. I am even 
now deep in admiration of the good old 
times. From mere impatience I could not 
sleep longer than seven o’clock, to Sascha’s 
horror, for she is a marmot. I sprang out 
of bed in my bare feet in order to admire 
by morning light the Cadolzeller, no Codol- 
zeller church, and the double bridge down 
in the valley ; for they had already enchant- 
ed me by moonlight. Your Tauber-nixy is 
a maiden of very good taste. I have also 
learned some Rothenburg stories and sayings. 
When I praised the baking at breakfast, the 
head-waiter quoted to me the old proverb: 


‘In Rothenburg on the Tauber, 
Both milling and baking are clean ;’ 


and as I came out of the house to reconnoi- 
tre a little by myself, the landlord imme- 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 205 


diately remarked to me that this was the 
famous Schimiedegasse, where, during the 
peasant revolt, blood had flowed like a 
brook when sixty rebellious leaders were 
executed on the place before the market by 
some Margrave. If I remain here three 
days I shall become a perfect Rothenburg- 
er. For truly, everything that I see pleases 
me. You too please me better than yester- 
day. Do you know that your artist cos- 
tume is very becoming? But come, we 
must not linger so long in one spot. Do 
not take pains to show me the so-called re- 
markable sights, but rather the nooks that 
no Baedecker has noticed and marked. And 
as I am a commandant’s wife, I will look 
first of all at the towers and walls, so that 
if Russia sometime lays siege to Rothen- 
burg, I may revenge myself for its present 
conquest of me.” 

He gazed at her steadily, as she chattered 
on with easy volubility. She wore the 
travelling gown of yesterday, but with a 
more coquettish air, and the fur cap rested 
provokingly over one ear. Then he offer- 
ed her his arm, and leading her through 
little side streets to the still well-preserved 
wall which enclosed the entire town, he 


206 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


told her that the town formerly had as 
many towers as there are weeks in the 
year; that most of them were still standing ; 
and that in war-time, during many hun- 
dred years, both friends and foes had rush- 
ed to these towers either to seek refuge 
there with goods and families, or to seize 
them as points of vantage. She listened to 
his statements in decorous silence, glancing 
to and fro with her sharp eyes and occa- 
sionally interrupting him by an exclamation 
of pleasure, whenever they came to any un- 
usual masonry, any artistic hovel hidden 
away among the buttresses, or the end of 
some street through which they could look 
back into the crooked old town. Then, 
climbing up some ancient steps leading to 
the top of the town-wall, they continued 
their way beneath the low, sheltering roof 
under which the worthy burghers had so 
often stood and returned the enemy’s fire. 
Now and then stopping at a loophole, she 
would look out and ask him to tell her the 
names of the surrounding country places, 
and of the roads that led through them. 
Thus they went from the dark tower on 
through the “ Réderthor” to the white tow- 
er, where she finally declared that she had 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 207 


satisfied her curiosity about the fortifica- 
tions and wished to return to the town. 
But an image of the holy Wolfgang claim- 
ed her attention for a while longer. He 
stands in a niche near his little church, one 
hand resting on a model of the church, the 
other meekly and sorrowfully uplifting his 
broken crosier. 

“Tf I should remain in Rothenburg,” 
she said, “ this holy man would become 
dangerous tome. See what a lovely, inno- 
cent, and yet wise face he has! -I have al- 
ways wished to meet a living saint and play 
the temptress for a while. Do you believe 
that this one could have withstood me if I 
had disregarded his soul ?” 

He awkwardly stammered some ‘pilin 
reply. In reality it seemed to him that 
neither worldlings nor saints could escape 
this fascinating woman, if she wished to 
cast her nets about them. As he beheld 
her slender figure gliding through the shad- 
owy passages, her face now and then 
lighted by a gleam of sunshine, his heart 
throbbed with a strange excitement, which 
he attributed to artistic feeling. But it es- 
stranged and mortified him that she did not 
once refer to yesterday’s plan of the Sicil- 


908 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


ian trip. And notwithstanding all yester- 
day’s resolutions, in spirit he already saw 
himself climbing the steps of the ampithea- 
tre at Taormina by her side, and heard her 
express her delight in terms very different 
from those of to-day over an old watch- 
tower or postern-gate. 

Once more she leaned upon his arm, and 
they returned to the town. Then he led 
her directly to the old Church of St. James, 
the town’s only cathedral. However, she 
regarded the beautiful Gothic structure 
with much less interest than he had ex- 
pected, and was coldly indifferent to the 
three famous altars with their admirable 
carving. 

But she looked long at the glass case 
wherein the holy blood is kept, and crossed 
herself. He thought to impress her by 
telling her that Heinrich Toppler set up the 
high altar and collected the pictures by 
Michael Wohlgemuth, and by showing her 
the great burgomaster’s arms with the two 
dice; but, stifling a little yawn, she request- 
ed to go into the streets again. There her 
interest was reawakened by the black stain 
on the arch of the gateway, beneath which 
a street passes through the church, A 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 209 


peasant, he told her, having cursed as he 
was driving his team through the place, 
was seized by the devil and flung high 
against the arch ; the body fell down, but 
the poor soul stuck fast. 

At this she laughed heartily. 

“You are foolish antiquaries, you gentle- 
men of Rothenburg !” she cried, “ and now 
let me see your town-hall, and then enough 
for to-day.” 


“Do you know,” she said, as they were 
retracing the short way to the market-place, 
“that it really seems to meas if this Ger- 
man Pompeii were inhabited by nothing 
but good people, whose truth and honesty, 
having been covered up like the old stones 
for several hundred years, has now come to 
light again? As yet I have not seen one 
evil face. They all greet each other; it is 
like a large, well-bred family, wherein each 
one behaves politely because he is observed 
by all the others. You, too, once out in 
the world would seem more merry and en- 
terprising. Now you have the same pious 
look. You must not take offence if I am 
often a trifle critical.” . 

He eagerly assured her that, quite the 


210 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


contrary, her frank, witty comments on 
everything interested him very much. Soon 
afterwards in the court-room of the town- 
hall he was subjected to a severe test. 
While the castellan was relating the story 
of the great draught, that celebrated saving 
deed of the old burgomaster, Nusch, who 
redeemed the forfeited lives of the whole 
council, and obtained mercy for the towns- 
folk from wicked Tilly, their harsh conquer- 
or, by performing the almost impossible feat 
of emptying a flagon of thirty Bavarian 
quarts at one draught—the haughty lady 
broke into merry laughter. The pretty story 
itself, she afterwards explained, did not seem 
so absurd to her as the solemn and affected 
manner of its narration, which inflated this 
mere feat of strength to a deed of the most 
noble heroism ; and it had also occurred to 
her that this legend somewhat resembled 
the story of the Roman knight Curtius, ex- 
cept that he had jumped into an abyss for 
his country’s sake, whereas the Rothenburg 
Curtius had the abyss in himself—and sey- 
eral other irreverent jests. 

He sadly acknowledged to himself that 
this woman, whom he considered a creature 
of unusual perfection in other respects, 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 211 


was completely lacking in the historical 
spirit. 

“Do you wish to ascend the tower ?”’ he 
asked. “It is a trifle appalling, but per- 
fectly safe. The walls, from the ground to 
the highest point, are all fastened with 
iron braces, so that the hollow four-cornered 
pillars hold fast together; but often in a 
storm the tall, slender tower sways to and 
fro like a shaken tree.” 

“Tam sorry the air is so quiet to-day,” 
she replied ; “of course we must go up.” 

He preceded her up the steep wooden 
steps until they reached the topmost part, 
where, after they had knocked, a trap-door 
was opened, and a little gray-headed man, 
the tower-keeper, greeted them kindly. 

She looked observantly about the airy 
room, through whose four small windows 
the bright noonday sun was streaming, 
seated herself on the footstool from which 
the lonely, little tower-keeper had arisen, 
and commenced a lively conversation with 
him. On the table lay several sewing im- 
plements and a half-finished waistcoat ; for 
the watchman was evidently a tailor, and 
adorned not only an- official position, but 
his fellow-citizens as well. Putting on the 


912 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


steel thimble, in which her delicate finger 
tip was fairly lost, she took a few stitches, 
and asked whether he would not surrender 
his office and his work to her. He was the 
only man in the world whom she envied ; 
since, in spite of his. high position, he was 
not annoyed with visits; and if he hap- 
pened to be struck by lightning in some 
thunder-storm, he would not be far from 
heaven. To this the little man replied that 
he had a wife and children, with a daily 
salary of only sixty pennies, so his life was 
not care-free after all. Then he showed 
her the signal apparatus for fires, and com- 
plained of the distress he often suffered 
when the tower swayed so that the water 
spilled over the edge of his keys. Then 
she inquired if they could go out upon the 
gallery surrounding the top of the tower. 
The watchman at once lowered a little lad- 
der from the ceiling, climbed it, and opened 
a metal trap which covered a small triangu- 
lar opening. Would the gracious lady risk 
crawling through there? Certainly she 
would ; she was slim enough even yet ; but 
the gentlemen should go first. 

Hans Doppler, who had never been able 
to persuade his little wife to force herself 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 213 


through the narrow hole, gave expression to 
his admiration of her spirit by an ardent 
look, and promptly clambered out after 
the watchman. The next instant he saw 
the beautiful woman appearing from the 
opening, and offered his hand to assist her. 
Then, separated from the dizzy depths be- 
low merely by a slender railing, they stood 
shoulder to shoulder in the narrow passage 
near the belfry, drawing deep breaths of 
the glorious air. The city lay at their feet 
as neatly spread out as a Nuremberg box 
of toys; the towers of the Chureh of St. 
James, with the swallows circling about 
them, were far below; they saw the silvery 
Tauber winding through the country, and 
the smoke from a hundred chimneys eddy- 
ing upwards in thin spirals. It was mid- 
day, and the streets were almost deserted. 

Suddenly she turned towards her com- 
panion. “If two people should kiss each 
other up here, could any one below see it ?” 
she asked. 

His face became darkly red. 

“Tt would depend on whether they had 
good eyes or not,’’ he said ; “ but as far as 
I know, no one has ever observed anything 
of the sort.” 


914 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


“Truly not ?” she said, witha little langh. 
“Do lovers never come up here on the 
tower, or even people who are tempted 
by the lofty point of view into some tri- 
fling madness? Only imagine how it would 
seandalize the good simpletons down there 
if, half squinting in the afternoon light, they 
should look up here and suddenly see such 
merry misconduct. Then perhaps the mag- 
istrate would cause a bill to be posted: 
‘Kissing is officially forbidden under a 
penalty of three marks.’ ” 

He laughed in great embarrassment. 

“T once ascended the dome of S&t. 
Peter’s,” she continued, “with a young 
Frenchman, who, as we were sitting in the 
great copper sphere, insisted that he posi- 
tively must embrace me—that it was a 
venerable old custom. But I forbade it, 
just because up there one is perfectly safe 
from prying eyes. The danger of being 
seen might have attracted me. One must 
have spirit in foolish pranks, else they are 
nothing more than foolish. Do you not 
think so ?” 

He nodded violently. He was becom- 
ing more and more embarrassed and un- 
comfortable. Yet at the same time he 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 215 


realized this woman’s great power over 
him. 

“You are born for the high places of 
life,” he stammered ; “in your presence I 
feel so free and light that if I remained 
near you long I am sure I should have 
wings to carry me far beyond the conven- 
tionalities of life.” 

She glanced sidewise at him with a keen, 
penetrating look. “ Well, then, why will 
you not let yourself be carried ?” 

He gazed perplexedly down into the 
depths below them. At this instant the 
clock at the Church of St. James struck 
twelve, and immediately the little watch- 
man gave twelve strokes to the great, dark 
bell behind them. 

The woman shrugged her shoulders and 
turned away. “Come,” she said coldly ; 
“it is late, and your wife will keep the 
soup waiting for you.” 

Then drawing her gown smoothly about 
her hips till it clung tight to her knees 
and ankles, she once more disappeared in 
the narrow opening, seeking the ladder 
rounds cautiously with her little feet. He 
came to her aid too late. When he arrived 
in the tower-room below she was already 


216 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


standing before the tailor’s little mirror 
arranging her hair. 

She seemed to have lost some of her 
friendliness, and he privately acknowledged 
that it was his fault. He reproached him- 
self severely for having behaved like a 
blockhead, in neglecting to seize his good 
fortune by the forelock. Not that he in- 
tended any harm, any faithlessness what- 
ever to his good wife! It was only meant 
for a merry pastime, like ransoming forfeits, 
and he had spoiled the game. What must 
she think of his Rothenburg stiffness! 
And would she trouble herself further 
about such a clumsy boor ? 

She bade a brief good-by to the tower 
watchman, and almost petrified him by 
pressing a thaler into his hand. On the 
way down neither spoke a word. And 
even in the broad, quiet Herrengasse he 
walked dumbly beside her; although a 
while before he would certainly have ex- 
plained to her that the tablets which she 
saw on some of the houses announced 
where and how long this and that great 
monarch had lodged during the old-time 
imperial feasts. She divined that regret 
and vexation sealed his lips, and as his 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 217 


penitence pleased her very well, she be- - 
gan to chat in her old familiar way 
again. 

As they came through the Burgthor, out 
upon the narrow ledge covered with trees 
and flowers, which hundreds of years be- 
fore had supported the real Rothenburg, 
she expressed a vivid pleasure in the old 
trees, with their still blossomless branches, 
and in the view at the right and left. Then 
he too became more cheerful, and pointed 
out to her the little water-tower down in 
the valley, which Heinrich Toppler had 
built, and in whose modest interior he had 
entertained King Wenzel. “And up 
there,” he said, “ where you see four small 
windows—the house wall forms a part of 
the town wall—there I live, and if you 
will do me the honor—” 

“Not now,” she said hastily; “I have 
dragged you around too long already. I 
shall go back to the inn alone, for I could 
now find my way through the town in 
clouds and darkness; and if I should lose 
my way, so much the better. La recherche 
de Vinconnu—that has always been my 
life purpose. You too go home now; I 
invite myself to your house this afternoon 


218 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


for a cup of coffee. But, understand, you 
are not to call for me. Adieu!” 

She gave him her hand, but after having 
scorned her lips, he could not persuade 
himself to kiss a mere glove. So, strange- 
ly agitated, he left her. 


When Hans Doppler arrived at his 
house, he found that, instead of delaying 
dinner, Christel had saved his portion for 
him. She thought he would dine at the hotel 
with his ancient friend, and the children 
were hungry. She brought out the simple 
fare, now so distasteful to him, and then, 
seating herself opposite, prattled on in her 
calmly cheerful way; talking of many 
things which seemed thoroughly insipid 
and worthless to him to-day, after his glimpse 
of the “high places of life.” All the 
children, except the oldest, who was now 
attending school, were playing in the gar- 
den, and were not in their best clothes. 

“Listen, child,” he said. ‘“ You might as 
well put another bow in your hair, and 
dress Lulu in her blue frock. The general’s 
wife is coming to take coffee with us.” 

“Ts this bow no longer good enough?” 
she replied, regarding herself in the mir- 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 219 


ror. “TI made it only eight days ago. Why 
should we put on so much ceremony be- 
cause an old Russian wishes to know us?’ 

“Hm!” said he. “I have already told 
you she is far from old—between thirty 
and forty—and very elegant, and since we 
have the things, why should we appear 
poorer than necessary? To be sure, we 
cannot change the old furniture, but you 
might at least put away those thin, brittle 
spoons, and have the new ones instead ; and 
if you will not dress in state—” _ 

He faltered, although she had not in- 
terrupted him by a word. But her look, 
seeking to read the depths of his heart, 
troubled him. 

“Listen, Hans!” she said. ‘ You amaze 
me. Hasn’t everything seemed pretty and 
suitable to you until now? And didn’t 
you yourself say that this old sofa, where 
we sat when our betrothal was celebrated, 
should never leave the house? And wasn’t 
the little coffee-spoon good enough for you, 
when I put my first preserved cherries 
into your mouth with it? The new ones, 
you know very well, belong to Heinz, 
whose god-mother is to send him one each 
year until the dozen is complete. Ought I 


920 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


to borrow anything from our boy in order 
to make a display before a strange lady ? 
My coffee is famous throughout the town. 
Mary shall run to the baker’s for some 
fresh pastry ; then, if we do not please your 
Russian, J am very sorry. For the rest, 
you appear to have studied her baptismal 
record more closely to-day. All the better, 
that she is no old woman. Tell me, has 
she children ?” | 

“T believe not. She has not spoken of 
them.” 

“No matter. Her silver spoons may be 
more beautiful than mine. As for our 
children, they, I think, could compare with 
any general’s children. I shall merely 
wash their hands a little, as they dig in their 
garden. But earth is not dirt.” 

Then she went out into the garden, while 
he, glad to be alone, pried about the room, 
rearranging and disposing things after his 
own mind in a more artistic fashion. Bring- 
ing a few aquarelles from the garret— 
which he had converted into an atelier by 
means of a half-covered north window—he 
hung them on the wall in place of the cray- 
on portrait of some forgotten great-aunt. 
He put an easel in the corner near the little 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 221 


window, and placed a study in oils upon it. 
He heartily desired to remove a certain 
shelf loaded with glasses, cups, artificial 
flowers, and alabaster figures, and he would 
have had no objection to throwing it out of 
the window upon the wall; but he knew 
that this treasure house of tasteless keepsakes 
was too dear to his wife for her ever to 
forgive such an act of violence. At length 
he regarded his work with a sigh; the 
room did not look very much changed ; heac- 
knowledged that the stamp of provincial sim- 
plicity was too deeply impressed on his life 
to be erased by a mere wave of the hand. 

But in truth this cage was too narrow 
for an aspiring artist. He must leave it at 
once, or the veil which had until now hid- 
den all this pettiness from his eyes would 
soon envelop him completely. 

Just then Christel returned ; and, casting 
a wondering glance at the easel and the 
new pictures, she smiled slightly, but said 
not a word. After spreading a pretty 
coffee-cloth on the table, she took from the 
shelf several cups—her best, though long 
out of fashion both in shape and decora- 
tion ; then, between the two plates which 
the maid had filled with cakes, she placed 


922 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


her principal piece of silver, a small sugar- 
bowl bearing on its lid a swan with out- 
spread wings. Hans, meanwhile, sat at the 
window, apparently absorbed in a book. 
The little woman evinced no surprise at his 
seeming lack of interest in the prepara- 
tions, though she laughed softly to herself 
now and then. Her pretty mouth looked 
very bewitching when she smiled, but Hans 
had no eyes to see this, and she soon left 
him alone again. 

Thus a short hour glided by, and as he 
heard her working outside in the kitchen 
and talking with the servant, her calm, 
soft voice, formerly so pleasing to him, 
pained him ; he himself did not know why. 
Suddenly he heard the door-bell ring, and, 
starting up, he rushed out into the hall. 
There he encountered Christel. 

“Must you actually receive her on the 
threshold like a princess ?” she asked calmly. 
“We are not such extremely humble 
people.” 

“You are right,” he said, somewhat con- 
fused. “I only wished to see if you were 
there.” 

She preceded him into the room. Imme- 
diately afterward the stranger entered. 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 223 


Christel met her with graceful cordiality ; 
the young artist merely bowed in silence. 
The lady almost ignored him, and devoted 
herself exclusively to the young wife. 
Christel invited her to sit beside her on the 
stiff little sofa, and thanked her for having 
found time during her short stay to visit 
them. 

“Our little old house is not one of the 
noteworthy sights of Rothenburg,” she 
said. “ We have no such beautiful wainscot- 
ing as in the hall of the Weissbacher house ; 
and, although everything is old, it is not 
therefore beautiful. To be sure, it pleases 
me, because I have known it from child- 
hood, and have seen people whom I loved 
sitting on all those ugly chairs. But my 
husband,” and she glanced roguishly at him, 
“would look on without a pang, if all our 
furniture went to the second-hand dealer, 
or was thrust into the stove. The best that 
we have is free to all, and is there out- 
side of the window. You must see our 
view, my lady. Then you will find it com- 
prehensible, that even an artist can be con- 
tented with this old nest—but who knows 
for how long!” 

Once more she glanced mischievously at 


224 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


Hans, who was pushing back the table in 
order to show the view to their guest. But 
the lady remained seated, saying that she 
had studied the Tauber valley thoroughly 
from the castle, and was now here solely on 
Christel’s account. She had evidently in- 
tended to be very gracious and affable, and 
to encourage the shy young wife in every 
way; but when she realized that there was 
no need of this, her own manner became 
somewhat constrained. She was unusually 
quiet, and listened in silence to Christel’s in- — 
‘genuous prattle and the husband’s occasional 
comments. The maid brought the coffee, 
and Christel served her guest without any 
ado. Meanwhile, she observed. the stran- 
ger’s face closely, and seemed to become 
more and more confident and cheerful in 
consequence. Then she inquired about the 
lady’s journey, about her husband; and 
asked if she had any children. As the 
stranger hastily answered this in the nega- 
tive, the subject was dropped. Soon after- 
wards Christel’s three oldest children rushed 
upstairs into the room; the larger boy held 
his younger sister, just two years old, in his 
arms ; all four looked pretty and rosy, and 
were only a trifle abashed when their mother 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 225 


bade them shake hands with the stranger. 
The latter regarded them through her 
lorgnette with apparent good-will, but evi- 
dently did not know what to say to them. 
So, with a glance at the shabby little piano 
standing against the wall, she at once asked 
if Christel played. 

She had played asa girl. Now she had 
too many household duties, and opened the 
old instrument only occasionally to accom- 
pany her children in a song. 

Of course the guest desired to hear one e of 
these family concerts, and, although the 
father remarked that it would be a very 
moderate pleasure, the young wife was soon 
persuaded. Gently lifting the youngest 
child from her lap, she placed it in the sofa 
corner. Then, seating herself at the piano, 
she struck several chords with an unpractised 
but musical hand, and played the melody of 
the song “ Jn einem kiihlen Grunde.” The 
two boys and little Lulu came softly behind 
her, and began to sing somewhat shyly. 
But by the second stanza the young voices 
sounded fresh and courageous; and the 
mother sang with them, in a voice whose 
charming quaintness lent peculiar strength 
and meaning to the tender love-song. 


226 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


Hans, sitting by the window, cast furtive 
glances at the stranger, whose face assumed 
a more and more bitter and unhappy ex- 
pression, the longer she listened. When the 
song was finished, she did not speak. 
Christel arose and whispered something to 
the children, whereupon, after a courteous 
bow, they left the room. Then she took 
the youngest, which had fallen asleep, and 
carried it out to the maid. When she re- 
entered, the two were still sitting in silent 
absorption. 

“Will you not show your friend the 
atelier ?” she asked brightly. ‘There is 
more to be seen there than down here.” 

He at once stood up, and the stranger 
also arose. “ You donot know how well you 
sing!” she said, offering her hand to Chris- 
tel. “Music always makes mesad; not the 
great roaring operas and concerts, but a 
pure, sympathetic human voice. And now 
let us go to this work-room of art.” 

He conducted her up a small, dark stair- 
case, and opened the door of the so-called 
atelier. The whitewashed walls of the spa- 
cious garret were covered with sketches and 
studies from his academic years; close to 
the window stood the table where he painted 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 227 


his water-colors, and on a couple of easels 
were two oil paintings, one completed and 
one but just commenced, naturally views of 
Rothenburg. But she appeared to take 
little interest in these works to-day ; for she 
spoke only occasionally of some study, and 
soon turned to the window, whence one 
could look far beyond the soft, green slopes, 
down the Tauber, where, in the slightly 
misty spring air, a little town lifted its an- 
cient tower among the tall, blossomless trees. 

“ There is nothing remarkable about those 
colors and outlines,’ he said, “but as a 
frame for the whole picture they are notbad. 
How different it must be to stand on the 
Capitol and see the beautiful, classic lines 
of the Alban mountain beyond the Forum 
and the imperial palaces! To be sure, I 
know it only from pictures!” he concluded 
with a sigh. 

“You will certainly see the reality some- 
time; that and still more beautiful things. 
Meanwhile, this too is not to be despised, 
each in its place.” 

Then she spoke of other things. But he 
was contented because she had thus referred 
to his southern trip, for the first time during 
the whole day. He was reflecting how to 


228 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


continue this theme which she had started, 
when she turned from the window and asked 
him to take her downstairs again. Before 
departing, she had a few letters to write, 
since she would find more time for them 
here than in Wiirzburg. When did the 
evening train leave? 

“ At eight o’clock,” he replied. 

“Good. We shall see each other once 
more at the station? Now I must go home.” 

When they came down into the house, 
Christel was no longer there; the mistress 
was in the garden, said the madi, turning 
red and refusing what the stranger tried to 
force into her hand. Christel met them in 
the garden, her hands full of hyacinths and 
spring flowers, which she had just cut and 
made into a simple nosegay. 

“You must be contented with these,” she 
said, “for as yet I cannot offer you any of 
my roses, of which I am very proud. But 
I myself have raised these yellow hyacinths 
with the greenish calyxes, and more beauti- 
ful ones are not easily found. I have a 
skilful hand with children and flowers—that 
is my only talent.” 

The stranger accepted the nosegay and 
embraced the giver, kissing her cheek. She 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 229 


then walked about the garden, which was 
surrounded with high walls, and, at this 
time of the year, had but little sunlight. A 
thick ivy covered the black walls, clothing 
them with a dusky green tapestry, against 
which the young shoots of the fruit-trees, 
and the beds of primroses, crocuses, and hya- 
cinths stood out in pleasing contrast. The 
children were playing in one corner, and 
labored on in their own irregular little gar- 
den without noticing the visitor. 

“T must now say farewell,” said the stran- 
ger. “Unfortunately, I cannot invite you to 
return my visit in my so-called home. In 
our castle it is not so green and cheerful as 
here; and I have never found out whether 
I have a skilful hand with children and flow- 
ers. But I thank you for these beautiful 
hours. I shall never forget them; they 
have both pleased and pained me as nothing 
has done for a long time. Adieu!” 

She embraced Christel again, and this 
time kissed her mouth. Then, nodding to 
the young husband with a scarcely audible 
“We meet again !” she quickly left the gar- 
den through the old arched gateway. 


It was only half-past seven, and the sun 


230 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


had scarcely set, when the omnibus of the 
“Golden Stag” rolled through the eastern 
town-gate, and soon afterward halted at the 
little station. But before the porter could 
open the carriage-door, a young man who 
wore a black artist’s cap, and who had been 
waiting there for some time, sprang forward 
and assisted the lady out first, then the Tar- 
tar maid, laden with the usual boxes and 
bundles. 

He himself carried a large sketch-book 
under his arm, and over his shoulder a light 
overcoat from whose pocket a thick packet 
protruded. His face was somewhat flushed ; 
his eyes were restless and excited. He in- 
quired if the tickets had been purchased ; 
then hastened to the office. Returning 
quickly, he gave two tickets to his patron- 
ess; a third he placed in his own pocket. 

“You travel with us?” asked the stranger, 
suddenly standing still, while Sascha carried 
her baggage to the waiting-room. 

He merely nodded, looking at her with 
astonishment and some agitation. 

“Where are you going? You returned 
only yesterday.” 

“Where? I hope to learn that from you, 
my lady.” 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 231 


She regarded him for a moment as if he 
were a madman. 

“Did you not urge it upon me,” he com- 
menced with a beating heart, ‘‘ that I owed 
it to myself to see a little of the world be- 
fore settling down forever in this narrow 
place? And were you not kind enough to 
desire me as your travelling companion, that 
I might sketch scenes that especially pleased 
you? I have given it mature consideration, 
and find that you are right; that I have no 
time to lose if I wish to take up my neglect- 
ed life-plan once more; and so I am here at 
your service.” 

She still remained silent, but looked away 
from him into the darkening sky, where 
Venus, softly splendid, was just rising. 

“Does your wife know of this decision, 
and does she agree to it?” 

“My wife?—I merely told her I wished to 
bid you good-by at the station. I mean to 
telegraph her from Steinach that she need 
not expect me immediately, that I am going 
on a littlesketching-trip. I shall write more 
to her from Wirzburg, and explain my rea- 
sons for stealing away from her thus. A 
formal parting would have pained us both 
unnecessarily ; and, God willing, we shall 


932 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


see each other again in a year orso. Sheisa 
very intelligent woman, much quicker and 
surer than I in all determinations, and she 
loves me too well not to wish for my good. 
I have considered all this during the past 
twenty-four hours. Have you changed your 
mind in the mean time? I have brought 
only the most necessary things with me,” he 
continued hesitatingly—“ I did not wish to 
cause any delay. Iam sufficiently provided 
with money ; I shall buy a trunk on the road 
—but why do you look at me so strangely, 
my-lady ?” 

“ Dear friend,” she said gently, “do you 
know that if I were not wiser than you, you 
would now commit an act of actual mad- 
ness, in fact, a crime against yourself and 
your life’s happiness ?” 

“ For heaven’s sake, my lady—” 

“ Be still! Do not speak a word, but lis- 
ten to me. Only first answer me a little 
question honestly and frankly; is it not 
true that you are a little in love with me ?” 

“My lady!” he stammered, in extreme 
embarrassment. He let his sketch-book fall, 
stooped for it, and occupied a long time in 
picking it up and dusting it. 

“ You are right,” she said, without smil- 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 233 


ing; “it was an artful question, and you 
need not answer it, for I know the truth 
already. Of course I am not angry with 
you for it, and you are not the first. It has 
come to me often enough when I have had 
less reason to be vain of it. But what have 
you imagined as the result ?” 

He was silent. She, glancing sidewise 
at him, amused herself a little with the 
spectacle of his helpless confusion. 

“T will tell you,” she continued ; “ it 
seems to you very romantic to allow your- 
self to be somewhat carried away, and to 
perform a little travel-romance in easy chap- 
ters, with pretty Italian landscapes for illus- 
trations. To me also—I confess it—you 
are pleasing enough for me to find your 
company really desirable, as I am a lonely, 
discontented, and still unresigned woman. 
Indeed, that you may know it—for I shall 
claim no virtue which I do not possess—I 
have given myself some trouble—very little 
was needed—to turn your head. In fact, 
you seemed to me too good for a petty, 
provincial life in dressing-gown and slip- 
pers by the side of a worthy little goose 
such as I imagined your wife to be. I even 
represented to myself that I had a sort of 


2934 ROTHENBURG ON. THE TAUBER. 


mission to fulfil in saving an artistic soul 
from the curse of narrowness, or however 
you wish to express it. But I have become 
terribly ashamed.” 

“ My wife—” he said. 

“Do not speak of her!” she exclaimed 
passionately. “ Do you know that you are 
unworthy of her? that, from the way in 
which you spoke of her, I expected to see a 
good, respectable, uninteresting creature ? 
and instead—all your famous Rothenburg 
has nothing to show more charming than 
this little woman! And you would for- 
sake her to run after an utter stranger? Do 
not take it unkindly of me; you have been 
on the point of becoming a perfect fool, 
and I am not vain enough to find any par- 
ticular excuse for mildness in the fact that 
you are infatuated with me.” 

Her voice sounded hard and shrill, and 
he perceived that she was speaking with 
painful effort. Then he strove to collect 
himself ; seizing her hand, and pressing it 
slightly in his own, he said : 

“J thank you, my lady, for all the kind 
and unkind words you have just said to me. 
- I will not be less frank than you; yes, you 
have turned my head, truly not in the ordi- 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 235 


nary way, but because you gave me a 
glimpse of the ideals of life and art which 
I renounced so early to seek happiness in a 
a modest, middle station. I have indeed 
found it, and am really not so blind and un- 
grateful as to think it worthless. But 
ought not a man to strive for the highest 
things? Ought he to be contented with a 
Rothenburg happiness—you yourself called 
it so—and especially if he devotes himself 
to art, should he not seek the unknown—” 

“To strive for the highest,” she inter- 
rupted him—“ the unknown? Praise your 
fate that it has never made those beautiful 
words real to you. They are will-o’-the- 
wisps which lead one astray into pits and 
swamps. Shall I tell youa story? There 
was once a beautiful young girl, the daugh- 
ter of a humble serf; and a young man, 
the tutor at the great house, was in love 
with her; he resembled you a little, only 
his hair and beard were less artistic. He 
wished to marry the girl, and as he hada 
little property, it would have been a very 
good match. But the proud thing aspired 
to the ‘highest,’ and although as yet she 
knew no French, she had even then an in- 
clination towards the recherche de ?inconnu. 


2936 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


Then a general came to the estate, and he 
too found the girl strikingly pretty, paid 
court to her, and finally asked her to marry 
him. Well, there was the ‘highest’ of 
which she had dreamt, and the ‘ unknown’ 
also, as the great world of St. Petersburg 
would be open to her. And so she forsook 
her humble suitor and became a general’s 
wife ; and when she saw the ‘ highest’ by 
daylight it was mean and low; and when 
she learned to know the ‘ unknown’ it was 
but insipid commonplaceness. Probably 
her heart would not have been filled with 
happiness beside a simple magister; but yet 
she would not have been quite so miserable 
nor made others so unhappy. Of course 
there were many who wished to help her 
atone for her error, and one of them might 
have succeeded. It was a pity that the gen- 
eral was such a sure hand with a pistol, and 
was not too proud to give a personal lesson 
to one of his young officers, thus striking 
the poor fellow out of the ranks of the liv- 
ing. But the woman, the fool—since then 
she has become restless, and seeks the ‘ un- 
known’ throughout the world, or—if she 
feels herself in the mood for self-decep- 
tion—the ideal. Do you know that, so far, 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 237 


she has found nothing more ideal than the 
quiet, wise, warm glance of your little wife, 
the peace of your old-fashioned home, and 
that skilful hand with children and flow- 
ers, which charms both into such fresh col- 
ors ? 

“So! Now I have nothing more to say to 
you. If you still believe that you cannot 
be happy without copying the old stones of 
the castle of St. Angelo instead of the old 
stones of the white tower, and without ven- 
turing upon grand and lofty. themes, al- 
though you have scarcely the stuff for a 
Raphael, then come with me. The way is 
free, and perhaps long enough for my ex- 
tremely unselfish mood to pass away once 
more. But if you are wise, you will post- 
pone your art journey until the children are 
old enough to be left in another’s charge 
for a few months. Then take Christel on 
your arm, and cross the Alps with her ; and, 
I promise you, even if she is only a Rothen- 
burg child, you could present her at Monte 
Pincio without being ashamed of her. Only 
beware that you yourself do not undervalue 
her. Always let her share your life and 
ambitions ; for we are what you make of us, 
if we are good; otherwise—we are certain- 


938 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


ly what we make of ourselves, but neither 
good nor happy. Enough of this! Adieu, 
and remember me to Christel. And when 
your work on Rothenburg is published, send 
it to me at Rome, under the address of the 
Russian embassy. I subscribe for three 
copies. I will spread the fame of the Ger- 
man Pompeii.” 

She gave him her hand, which he pressed 
to his lips with intense feeling. Then, 
drawing her veil over her face, she hurried 
to the train, which was standing ready for 
departure. When she was seated in the 
coupé, she nodded to him once more. The 
little engine whistled, and the black serpent 
glided out on the bare rails. But the stran- 
ger drew back into her dark corner, and for 
a long time stared before her like a statue. 
Suddenly opening one of her Russian leath- 
er satchels, she ruammaged around in it, and 
finally drew out a case. “There, take it,” 
she said in Russian to her maid. “ You 
have always admired this bracelet so much, 
Sascha, I will give it to you. I am moved 
to generosity. I wish it never cost me 
more than such a shining toy.” 

Sascha fell on her knees before her, and 
kissed her hand. Then, playing with the 


ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 239 


gift, she withdrew to her corner. She be- 
lieved she heard her mistress crying softly 
under her veil, but did not dare ask why. 





About this time Hans Doppler returned 
to his little wife. The children were al- 
ready asleep. He was strangely softened 
and moved to tenderness. Again and again 
he stroked her wavy, brown hair, which she 
arranged so prettily over her ears. He 
gave her the stranger’s last greeting with- 
out telling her anything more about the 
parting. Yet several times, as they were 
sitting together at their evening meal, he 
attempted to begin a full confession. At 
length he said : 

“Do you know, my darling, that the 
general’s wife actually planned to take me 
with her on an art journey through Sicily 
and Italy? What would you have said to 
that ?” 

“ Well, Hans,” she replied, “I would not 
have restrained you, if it had really been 
your wish. It is true, I do not know how 
I could have stood it. I can no longer im- 
agine my life without you. But if your 
happiness had depended on it—” 


240 ROTHENBURG ON THE TAUBER. 


‘My happiness? That depends only on 
you!” protested the crafty fellow, endeavor- 
ing to conceal a blush. “You should have 
heard the general’s wife comparing my un- 
worthiness and your superiority. But you 
—did you not become a little jealous ?” 

“Of whom? Of the old Russian?” 

“Old? With that hair and complexion!” 

“Oh, you blind Hans!” she cried, laugh- 
ing, as she pulled his hair; “then you did 
not see that this dangerous Muscovite was 
powdered over and over, and had a thick 
false braid? But even if everything were 
all right about her, do you believe I would 
not trust myself to hold my own with her? 
And then—the Tiber may be a perfectly 
beautiful river—but it is certainly not to be 
compared with the Tauber!” 








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